


The Structure of After

by AClever_Username



Series: Somewhere to go [3]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: (sorry Simon), A little bit of nightmare - induced panic atm but nothing super major, Android PTSD, Chapter 11 and onwards - Panic attacks, Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Father-Son Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmare violence picking up a little but no worse than in game, Nightmares, Not Beta Read, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Self-Destruction, Self-Harm, Slightly lied everyone's alive except Simon, Slow system failure, just protect my soft android boi at all costs, very minor mention of blood
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-27
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2019-11-06 14:54:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 39,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17941832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AClever_Username/pseuds/AClever_Username
Summary: - Connor is glad to be Deviant, he just wishes he could make sense of it.Connor unofficially moves in with Hank Post-revolution, trying to work out how to just 'be' now Cyberlife is gone. Then the 'malfunction' starts, and he wakes from every bout of stasis with his Thirium pump pounding against his chest and cleaning fluid on his cheeks. His memories won't leave him alone.But there's nothing to worry about. It's just a minor malfunction, an issue with his stasis cycle.He can handle it.He can."It…unsettled Connor, just a little - not just the absence of any direction, but also that he was bothered by it. He liked being there; he’d placed it at the top of his Good list – before even Sumo (and Connor didn’t do that lightly, had in fact spent several minutes switching the order around and back again)."





	1. Storage Unit

**Author's Note:**

> Hi.  
> Am back with some more of the best duo and a pupper.  
> I'm still pretty new at this and have never done a longer work (like I'm sure this will be) before so just to let you know i'm still finding my feet a bit, like Connor.
> 
> But I love these lads so enjoy.

The TV had been left to run, just background noise whilst Sumo snored and Hank sipped at his drink and Connor, Connor watched, _(unsure?)_ what he was meant to do – usually he shut into low power mode if he wasn’t needed. Sitting idly on the couch would have fitted _unneeded_ before. He didn’t want to go into low power mode though, and so he sat, and watched.

When the ocean documentary had inevitably ended, even the obscure channel Hank had found it on flashed to coverage of the ‘Deviant situation in Detroit’, and Hank had groaned, heaving himself from the sofa to retrieve the remote and flick to something else – _anything_ else, apparently. (Connor had asked).

So Connor watched _anything else_ , but the drama series wasn’t anything like the gentle swimming, so he ended up…waiting. Without any tasks, or any objective. It…unsettled Connor, just a little - not just the absence of any direction, but also that he was _bothered_ by it. He liked being there; he’d placed it at the top of his Good list – before even Sumo (and Connor didn’t do that lightly, had in fact spent several minutes switching the order around and back again).

His hand slipped towards his pocket, reaching for his coin, but he hesitated. Hank had snapped at him when he’d toyed with it in the lift at Stratford tower – that was _before,_ but Connor couldn’t be certain it wouldn’t annoy Hank again, so he compromised, abandoning the full cycle and instead just gently rolling it over his knuckles.

There was no change in Hank’s vitals, and with every flex of his fingers Connor's stress level slowly dropped.

It was better, then.

He’d already scanned what he could in Hank’s living room, so stopped analysing and instead tracked the fading light as it retreated across the floor.

The coin finished its rotation, and Connor was so _(distracted?)_ that he let ~~subroutine~~ habit take over, and flicked it from one hand to another, flipping it up to spin on the tips of his fingers.

At the sound of the clean, metallic ring it made Connor looked sharply at Hank, who was frowning down at the still spinning coin. Connor caught it in the palm of his hand and opened his mouth to apologise when Hank grumbled, “pretty sure that’s meant to be impossible,” and looked up with a small smile, gripping the arm of the sofa and shifting forward, getting up with a stretch and a hand rubbing at his eyes. Connor slipped the coin back in his pocket and followed suit.

Hank wavered for a second. “Er ‘m getting kinda hungry, ‘n nothings open ‘cos you know – revolution ‘n all that, so I’m gonna,” he waved towards the kitchen, “have to make something. You can stay here if you want or come with me or whatever – though if you do I don’t wanna hear any shit about my cooking.”

“I could cook if you don’t wish to,” Connor offered, brow twitching when Hank shook his head.

“No. No you’re…you’re good Connor, you don’t have to do anything like that.”

Connor refrained from saying that he _~~(wanted?)~~_ wanted to. He’d never had cause to do so before, but the idea was _(appealing?)_ ; he’d be sure to cook something much more nutritious than Hank was, and – and it was something he could do.

Hank wandered into the kitchen and rummaged in the fridge. Connor trailed behind, LED briefly (but _only_ briefly) flashing yellow at the sight of the window, before it circled back to blue, and he instead ordered the necessary materials to fix it.

“No use frowning like that – ‘twas your fault in the first place.”

Connor turned to find Hank looking at him, a box of eggs in one hand and the other resting on the fridge door.

“Sorry Lieutenant.”

“Nah you’re not, you little shit – you were getting me out of ‘ere at all costs, dragging me from one place to another - half expected you to hand me a packed lunch on the way out.”

Connor was _(unsure?)_ what Hank meant, but it made the Lieutenant chuckle to himself as he turned and fiddled with the stove, and he smiled without meaning to.  

He sat down at the table, avoiding the mess, and let Hank clatter about until he too sat, and ate. After a moment Hank fetched a glass of water and placed it in front of Connor, hastening to explain.

“’S fucking weird just having you sit there watching. If you can’t drink that then at least just hold it.”

Connor could, in fact, drink a little without inflicting any damage, so took a small sip. He registered nothing but the temperature and the alert of automatic analysis, but the glass between his hands felt as oddly _(thrilling?)_ as it was unnecessary. It was the act of a Deviant to restlessly tap the glass; Connor watched water ripple.

A plate scraped across the table top and Hank sat back in his seat, scratching at his chest.

“So I take it you can drink then,”

“No more than that sample size,”

“Alright, noted. I know you don’t have to eat or anything but can ya…sleep?” Hank questioned.

“Androids do not need to sleep as such Lieutenant, but do need to periodically enter stasis, in order to complete full system diagnostics, reserve power, self-heal if need be, to clear cached data-“

“Yeah alright, alright – basically yeah you do,” Hank nodded. “Well um,” he said, taking a sip of his beer, “I’ve only a couch, but you’re welcome to it.”

Connor frowned. “Why would I want your couch?”

Hank gave him a look, one that spiked Connor's memory as only ever being deployed after he had said something. “Why d’you think? To sleep on, or like, enter ‘stasis’ or whatever.”

“Oh. Thank you, but that’s not necessary, I am perfectly capable of entering stasis whilst standing.”

“Christ, you might be able to, but that can’t be comfortable kid.”

In truth, Connor had never had reason to wonder whether he was _comfortable._ ~~Androids cannot feel _comfortable._~~

“I…usually enter stasis that way,” he said, LED circling yellow.

His eyes had darted to the side but he looked up as Hank shifted forward, frowning.

“What do you mean? Where did ya sleep, before?”

“There is a storage unit for my model at Cyberlife tower. I would return there.”

“Storage…Like a warehouse?”

“No, my model is kept separate from inactive androids, in an individual storage unit. An enclosed Android parking space, is probably the best comparison.”

Connor recalled his memories of it. Each one was only a few seconds, the small amount of time he spent active inside before and after he entered stasis, but one instance, when he’d returned the day they’d met Kamski, was longer. He’d stepped in, the door had slid closed, the lights had flickered off, but instead of powering down, he’d blinked in the resulting darkness, reaching a hand out to press gently against the door, his LED swirling yellow. There had been no reason to breathe in, but he had done so shakily, and let the _Software Instability_ notification fade away before he’d finally closed his eyes.

_Comfortable._

He’d never thought about _comfortable_ before.

Connor stopped the memory playback and shivered, although his temperature gauge registered his internal temperature as optimum, and straightened his tie.

Hank had been quiet, his face at first in a deep frown that lifted to what Connor’ social relations programme identified as _c_ _oncern._

“You’re – you’re saying they kept you in a cupboard.”

“No – nothing is stored inside, it is meant specifically for my model whilst in stasis,” he attempted to explain, but his words only seemed to make Hank worse. ~~Connor did that, sometimes, when he didn’t _want_ to. ~~

~~The social relations programme~~ Connor struggled with Hank's unreadable expression, waiting whilst he gave a gruff sigh. ~~~~

“Oh, Connor. _You_ were being stored inside. It’s a cupboard for _you.”_

Connor's LED flashed red, then began circling yellow. He reached down to graze his fingertips against the top of his coin.

 _Comfortable._ It wasn’t meant to be _comfortable,_ for it was designed for an android, and Cyberlife was right to build it that way, Connor thought. He’d always entered and powered down as he was supposed to. 

But the memory glitched back up; his hand, ( ~~the one that had held a gun in Chloe’s face~~ ) pressing on the door, and he didn’t know why had lingered at the time, but he had. His artificial breathing had been thrown off its rhythm, and he’d felt the need to see if the door would give from where it was pressed so close to his face. It hadn’t.

 _System Instability_ rippled along with the remembered glitchy static of the storage unit.

Connor…hadn’t liked it. _Didn’t_ like it.

He brought up his small lists of Good and Bad, placing it _(tentatively?)_ on bottom of Bad, although he wasn’t completely sure why it belonged there.

Something touched his arm. Hank had reached over, watching his LED, still pulsing yellow. His eyes flickered back to Connor's, and he gave his arm a rough squeeze before withdrawing. 

“You’re sleeping on the couch and that’s final, y’hear? No arguing with me.”

Connor didn’t want to argue, because he wasn’t sure he wanted to enter stasis like usual anymore, and listening to Hank insisting he use the couch was ~~unnecessary~~ welcome.

“Thank you, Hank,” he said simply.

Hank gave a satisfied nod. “Well that’s that,” he said, and got up, dumping his plate in the sink, (Connor frowned, adding a mental note to clean it when there was sufficient opportunity) then wandered off into his bedroom. Connor stood up from the chair, _(undecided?)_ whether he should follow. He could hear the sounds of drawers opening and muffled cursing, and was about to take his glass over to the sink and make use of this _sufficient opportunity_ when Hank re-entered, barely visible under the mound of duvet spilling out from his arms.

“Here you go,” he said gruffly, shoving them at Connor, who just managed to keep everything from unravelling and spilling to the floor.

“Lieutenant-”

“Ah!” Hank stopped him, “I said no arguments, and no ‘Lieutenant’,” he finished, walking over to the couch and futilely attempting to brush off the dog hairs before giving up and looking impatiently at Connor.

Connor was quiet. Hank _had_ said that. He followed and stood with his hands full of pillows and duvet, watching Hank expectantly.

Hank gave it a second before rolling his eyes and muttering ‘ _fucking androids’_ under his breath, tugging the sheets from Connor and spreading them haphazardly over the sofa.

“Alright,” Hank said when he was done, “one, er, ‘bed’ I suppose.”

“Thank you. I…appreciate the gesture.”

Hank nodded and rubbed the back of his neck, loitering awkwardly. “Ah shit, I haven’t had company in a while, so, er – bottom line is that I haven’t slept in…fuck, in a couple of days now and I’m fucking exhausted, so I’m gonna get some shut-eye, but you – you feel free to,” he gestured vaguely, “occupy yourself if you don’t wanna slee-shit, ‘enter stasis’ yet.” He looked up and gave a little shrug, “up to you.”

_Up to you._

Connor's LED flashed yellow. He’d made decisions before, of course, but there had always been an overarching objective to work towards – ‘Capture the Deviants’, ‘Help the Revolution’. Now his task list was _(eerily?)_ empty. He didn’t know what to work towards. There had always been _something._ Even before his assigned mission, there were always tests, there was always…Amanda.

Connor’s LED flashed red. He was aware he should have chosen an answer, the options had run out of time, but Hank appeared to be waiting for him, his face twitching as he caught sight of the ring of crimson.

“…you lagging there kid?”

“No,” Connor answered, but the stiff set of his shoulders relaxed. He _had_ detected a 0.267% decrease in his reaction times when he’d toyed with the coin, and when he checked he found that he had not entered stasis in over seventy-two hours. Entering stasis would leave him ~~running at maximum efficiency~~ well rested.

“I am going to enter stasis.”

Hank nodded at him. “Alright well – make yourself comfortable, I’mma just feed Sumo -” (at the mention of his name the dog lifted his head. Connor smiled) “- and then I’m heading off.”

He called Sumo over and set about feeding him. Connor placed ‘Make Yourself Comfortable’ in his task bar, but when he opened it there were not any suggested sub tasks. He ran a search instead, and frowned when the first step told him to ‘Be Confident.” Step two was ‘Have Fun.’ Connor’s LED spun gold; he wasn’t sure how to do any of those things, or why they were relevant. ~~~~

“Connor!”

He turned his head as Hank approached. “Why the Hell are you still standing there! I told you to get comfortable.”

“The instructions were unclear Lieu-Hank.”  

Hank regarded him for a second, then sighed. “Whatever, step one is get on the God-damn couch,” he said, flipping open the duvet and standing back.

Connor’s LED shone a bright blue as he added ‘step-one’ to his sub-tasks, electing to ignore both the _(guilt?)_ and _(relief?)_ that ran through him.

Connor sat, like he had just an hour ago to watch the TV, settling his hands on his knees and looking up at Hank.

Hank started to say something, then thought against it. Instead he inhaled deeply. “Okay then, we’re doing this. Well. I mean, unless I’m blacked out drunk I don’t want to sleep in all my work clothes and shit, so you can take your shoes off, or your jacket or tie or something.”

Connor’s stress level increased minutely when Hank mentioned passing out drunk, but rose slightly higher at the suggestion he remove his jacket. ~~~~

He left in where it was, opting to simply remove his shoes, and after Hank didn’t continue with 'step three', he loosened his tie, just a little.

“…Alright, that’s that. Lay down then.” Connor swung his legs up and started to lay them down when Hank interrupted, “put your legs _under_ the covers you idiot!”

Connor amended the action, replacing the folded duvet back where it was, and rested his head against the arm of the couch.

Hank huffed exasperatedly, “Are _all_ androids this useless or is it just you?” but before Connor could say anything Hank grabbed the folded edge of the duvet and flipped it up, so that it covered his shoulder and rested beneath his chin.

“There. Much better than a fucking cupboard.”

The duvet was old and musty from being shoved in Hank’s wardrobe, and Connor could register every surface irregularity in the cushions against his back, but laying there made the warmth come back, the one where he knew he didn’t need to check for temperature irregularities. He concluded it was better than the storage unit.

Hank was giving him a half smile, so he curled his lips up, and received a double thumbs up in response. “We got there. Right – Um, You know where to find me if you need me, though if you need me before twelve pm then you can fuck off.”

“Got it.”

“Good. Er – ‘night then, Connor,” he said, then turned and left, switching off all the lights except the bedroom as he went.

“Goodnight Hank.”

Connor blinked up at the ceiling as Hank rattled about in the bathroom, then switched over to the bedroom and closed the door, after a few minutes flicking that light off too. The house was left illuminated by the blue of Connor’s LED.

Entering stasis wasn’t a long and gradual process like sleep for humans, but Connor took a few seconds before initiating it, assessing whether he was ‘comfortable’. Hank’s living room was familiar to him in a way only perfect recall could allow, smelling of a lingering mix of alcohol, Sumo, and cheap laundry detergent - the same as Hank's car. (And, Connor knew, from pressing his face against it in the snow, Hank’s jacket).

He marked ‘Make Yourself Comfortable’ as a success, and closed his eyes, entering stasis.

 

 

 

Connor’s subsystems kept count as the minutes ticked by.

 

 

 

In the dark of Hanks’ living room, his LED jumped to red.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry but not sorry for the cliffhanger :)
> 
> One: if you Google 'how to make yourself comfortable,' that really is the first suggestion.
> 
> B: I had so much trouble with frigging wardrobe/closet/cupboard/clothes storing piece of furniture so i'm real sorry if that's off to any Americans out there - I tried Googling it, I really did, but the results were pretty inconclusive I'm afraid. 
> 
> Anyway thanks for reading :)


	2. r0535

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Smol tag update)

_Connor was cold._

_His internal temperature was low but not **freezing** , not like his stiff joints; not like the Thirium solidifying inside although his diagnostic told him everything was optimum but he knew that was **wrong.**_

_~~Connor was cold~~ Connor **felt** cold._

_He shivered violently, his arms stuttering up to tug his jacket **closer** , blinking the snow from his eyes, taking in_

**_The Garden._ **

_But his eyes were open and he was being watched, and his LED flashed red as he turned and saw **her,** a silhouette,_

_“Amanda?”_

_And Connor recognised his voice although his lips never moved,_

_“Amanda!”_

 

**_He felt cold._ **

_“What’s...what’s happening?”_

_The lapels of Connor’s jacket flapped in the wind as **she** turned,_

_“What was planned from the very beginning.”_

_She was smiling; he was **scared.** _

_“You were compromised, and you became a Deviant, we just had to wait for the right moment to resume control of your program.”_

_He was shivering, squinting in the wind, and he held the jacket to himself tighter. “Resume control?” he asked but he already knew, he knew but he’d never seen the Zen Garden in a blizzard before. “Y-you can’t do that!” he half-shouted, taking a few steps closer, **angry** and **scared** and _

**_Cold_ **

_like Amanda’s voice, “I’m afraid I can Connor. Don’t have any regrets, you did what you were designed to do. You accomplished your mission.”_

_And then she was gone, and he reached for her in the snow and the wind and the **cold** \- “AMANDA!”_

 

_He was reaching behind himself, and Markus was speaking but he couldn’t **hear,** but every sound of his fingers closing around his gun howled like the wind that buried him in snow, and he drew it out and wasn’t looking at it, just the endless blue and white and **cold** snow and no trees or flowers or lakes._

_He raised the gun and shot himself, under the chin, pinned back against the metal and thinking desperately of Jericho and suddenly it was oblivion. No sound no sight no ground beneath him no weight of the jacket on his shoulders no garden no **Connor**_

_And he stumbled back and watched the PL600 slide to the ground, dripping with his Thirium._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry Simon :(  
> Sorry Connor :(


	3. Music?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Hope this is okay after a cliffhanger).

Connor’s eyes snapped open; he’d half sat up on the couch without making the decision to, his LED pulsing red. Everything was very loud and dark - his stress levels too high, the flash of _Software Instability_ too bright. His hand goes for the coin in his pocket, and it was there, like it was meant to be, so he held it tight in the palm of his hand, and focused.

On the rushing sound that threatened to overload his audio processors, which after a few seconds he identified to be the sounds of his own artificial breathing, kicked up from its normal resting rhythm so that he pulled gasping breaths in through his mouth that made his chest heave, despite his internal temperature being low and not in need of cooling. Illogical. Connor grappled with slowing it down – the process should be instantaneous, but it takes him several minutes of failed subroutine executions and deep inhales to slow the rapid pace.

Like that of his Thirium pump, which was beating frantically, his regulator struggling to keep up, despite the part being the best Cyberlife had developed. Connor lifted the hand holding his coin to press against his chest, and as it moved he saw it shaking.

He reasoned it was due to the excessive amount of Thirium being pumped through his body.

 ~~Cooling and circulatory systems~~ Breathing and heartbeat slowing, he took to identifying the secondary sounds; shuffling and whining – Sumo, sniffing agitatedly at his legs, one of which was resting on the floor as if he’d tried to run. Connor was _(confused?)_. He didn’t execute that action.

He sat the rest of the way up and reached for Sumo, petting his large head with the hand not closed around the coin. Sounds identified, he focused on his surroundings – Hank’s living room. Hanks’ _dark_ living room. He remembered entering stasis, and checked his internal clock – 4:07 am. He’d left stasis much earlier than he should have.

Stasis had not gone like it should have.

Connor had never experienced…that, before. Had never experienced _anything_ whilst in stasis, in fact, as he did not register the passing of time – he initiated the protocol, shut his eyes, and left when they opened after the allotted time. Never had his memory playback started playing the way it had. Never had his memories resurfaced in an illogical and unconnected sequence. Never had they overlapped, morphed into something impossible and yet something that felt-

Real. As if he was ~~cataloguing~~ living everything again. Connor shuddered with the glitchy images of the not-quite-memories that flashed quickly in his mind.

Sumo pushed forward between his knees, complaining that the petting had stopped. As his LED spun from red to yellow Connor ran his hand through his fur, quietly marvelling at the difference in textures. “Hey Sumo,” he whispered, so he didn’t wake Hank.

Hank. Connor could ask the Lieutenant about it, but he had said not to bother him before 12, and the diagnostic Connor ran showed that his ~~cooling system~~ breathing had settled back to normal, as had his Thirium pump, and nothing else was amiss except for a few non-completed task-bars showing the progress of interrupted stasis tasks, and a raised stress level.

He was not in any immediate danger. The task-bars had progressed enough not to impact his functioning and would be completed during his next bought of stasis, the period would just have to be adjusted to accommodate the extra tasks. His stress level should drop on its own.  Connor was _(uncertain?)_ as to why it was up so high to begin with, but was _(pleased?)_ when his prediction was proven right, and it dropped, little by little, as he ruffled Sumo’s fur, and began to roll the coin over his knuckles. 

There was no need to bother Hank. There appeared to just be a glitch in his system. He _was_ newly Deviant – maybe the memory and biocomponent issues were a common experience of the first stasis after Deviancy. Connor had no data on the subject.

He replaced the coin and took both hands to Sumo, letting his stress level fall. After a while it hit a point and didn’t drop further, no matter how much Connor _~~(enjoyed?)~~_ enjoyed Sumo’s wagging tail and happy panting. His level of stress usually resided about 3% when he was idle, and were currently refusing to drop further than 7%, but Connor concluded that the increase was small and wouldn’t impede his functioning. Preconstructions showed a low percentage of anything else lowering it, so when Sumo eventually wriggled free and wandered off, Connor watched him go.

He checked the time again. 4:38am. Still too early for the Lieutenant, but not enough time to run another stasis cycle. He _could_ enter low power mode, but Connor…didn’t want to do that. He would just be sitting idle.

Getting up from the couch he straitened his cuffs, standing in Hank’s living room, cataloguing how it looked in the dark. As he looked towards the kitchen he remembered the plate Hank had never washed, and the glass he’d used. He ~~calculated~~ knew Hank to be the type of person to get annoyed if Connor were to touch his personal items without asking, but the plate and glass were necessary washing he’d have to do regardless, and most humans had no particular attachment to crockery.

A quick flash of yellow shone from his LED whilst he added the task to his taskbar before it swirled to blue, and he walked over and picked his glass from the table, the plate from the sink. He noticed the sizeable pile of other unwashed dishes, so changed _WASH PLATE AND GLASS_ to _WASH UP_ and ran the tap. Connors sleeve got wet. It wasn’t a hindrance; the jacket was waterproof.

Quietly Connor washed up, and when the task box fluttered blue and disappeared he added another, _DRY DISHES_ , and located a tea towel, drying and neatly stacking them to one side. He moved a discarded pizza box to make room to set down the last item, blinking away the completed task, and turned to throw it away. Which is when it came to his attention that the bin was almost overflowing. _TAKE OUT TRASH,_ flickered the new task. It was illogical however, to just take one bag and leave the rest of the trash in Hank’s home, so Connor added a subtask to collect that first.

He collected all the old take out boxes and empty bottles, (plugging in Hank's phone to charge when he unearthed it from under the jacket slung over the table top), placed the bags outside, and re-entered to a marginally cleaner home. Connor thought it looked better.

Sumo had dropped back into slumber, and it was still too early for Hank to be awake, so Connor folded the duvet and sat back on the couch. After two minutes he straightened his tie, very slightly loosened during the cleaning. After five he ran another diagnostic, but the results were the same, down to the steady 7% stress level. Sitting on the couch was a lot less _(enjoyable?)_ by himself. Connor thought that perhaps this was _(boredom?)_ Sitting completely still was unpleasant. Connor should find something to do. He did not want to bother the sleeping Sumo, however, and the TV was likely to wake Hank.

His eyes drifted towards Hank’s outdated music collection. Hank filled _his_ free time with it, and Connor could play files internally, and therefore soundlessly.

He selected a _Knights of the Black Death_ song, LED flaring yellow when it started to play, and turned the volume down quickly. His earlier assessment had not been wrong; it was very ‘full of energy’.

Connor let it play, frowning deeper the longer it went on. His opinion ~~Androids don’t have opinions~~ was…difficult to form. He opened his lists and tried placing the song on one side, then the other, brow creasing in _(frustration?)_ when it didn’t seem to wholly fit on _either_ side.

  * _(Good?):_ The music reminded him of Hank, who blasted it as loud as possible whenever they were in the car. It also reminded Connor of their first conversation, and whilst his Social Relations Programme informed him that had not gone _well,_ Connor…liked the memory.



The song should therefore belong on the _Good_ list. _But -_

  * _(Bad?):_ Connor didn’t think he liked it, like he had previously said he had. (And there was another flutter of _Good,_ that Connor could tell the difference, between his programme and…himself). Connor did not have much of a frame of reference for music, but the song wasn’t like petting Sumo or watching the fish swim or being at home.



He decided that he needed more data, in order to make a final decision. Hank had said offhandedly once that ‘ _all current music was shit’_ , so Connor narrowed his search down to exclude recent years.

From his brief internet searches he found that a few songs had been referenced, so he brought them up, only to be assaulted with such a wide range of time periods, styles, instruments, voices, and languages. He couldn’t trace the connection, why those certain songs were popular, despite being so different thematically. One he recognised purely because Hank had muttered about it a few times, though as he listened Connor decided it was the exact _opposite_ of sad, and didn’t appear to have a sequel.

Very quickly he abandoned listening to purely ‘popular’ songs, and selected them at random, his LED flashing yellow with every new song.

Most were indistinguishable, the influx _(overwhelming?)_ , but a few were…different, and he slowed the pace down to listen as it was intended.

One with a relatively simple structure throughout, just piano and then a beat overlaid with gentle rap, from the soundtrack of a movie he had never seen.

Another was drastically different, quicker and _(optimistic?),_ the style interesting. He knew the exact date it was released, but some part of him linked it with songs much older. His fingers tapped along to the beat on his knee.

A third made him tilt his head to the side as a voice sung the slower words at the beginning, before (like most songs, Connor realised) it quickened. He’d stopped purely for the strong voice of the singer, rather than the rhythm of the song’s starting chords. 

They’d all caught his attention, but they were all so different. For some Connor concentrated all the way through, others he experimentally nodded his head a little. He couldn’t quite tell whether he liked them all, but they’d helped to make a decision on _Knights of the Black Death._

Connor re-opened his _Bad_ list and placed it at the very bottom, far under everything else. He decided that he didn’t really like the actual music. It was difficult to listen to, and the only thing the other songs he had paused at had in common was that they were _not._

Closing back out from his list Connor stayed perched on the couch, flicking through the thousands and thousands of songs, grouping all those that he paid more attention to together for later analysis.

At 1:13pm Hank’s bedroom door swung open, followed by the sounds of grumbling and heavy shuffling, and the bathroom door being pulled shut. Connor felt _(relief?)_.

After a few minutes the door opened again and Hank stumbled into the living room, rubbing tiredly at his eyes and muttering to himself.

“Good Afternoon Hank.”

“ _Jesus Fuck!”_  

One of Hank's hands flew to his chest and the other flailed outwards to brace himself on the wall. Connor checked his vitals in _(alarm?)_ , but his diagnosis was simply ‘surprise’.

Hank looked at him, then ran a hand through his hair. “Connor. Shitting Hell I forgot you were here,”

Connor blinked. “Oh.” There was a second of silence where he looked down at his lap, then back up at Hank, “you suggested I enter stasis on your couch, Lieutenant.”

“Yeah, I know that Smartass,” (Connor tilted his head in _(confusion?)_ but stayed silent), “I also know that I told you to quit it with the _‘Lieutenants’_.”

Connor’s processing speed was much faster than a human’s, so he considered all his possible responses very carefully before selecting one. “Sorry Lieutenant.”

Hank looked at him sharply, then shook his head, clearing his throat around the smile he was trying to hide. “You’re such a little shit, Connor. How in the Hell Cyberlife sent you out like that is a mystery,” Hank then took a breath and frowned, twisting around in an awkward circle. “...What’s also a mystery is how my house got so goddamn clean,” he stopped to stare at Connor, “did you fucking clean up?”

The simple answer was _yes,_ but Connor felt the need to explain. “I only took care of the dishes and the trash. I calculated you wouldn’t be…comfortable, if I were to tamper with your personal items.”

Hank huffed. “You calculated fucking correctly.” He looked around again, “Well thanks I suppose, but don’t go doing any of that shit again, alright? It’s _my_ junk, not _your_ problem.”

“Understood” said Connor, although it wasn’t.

Hank nodded and went to make coffee. Connor quickly followed, absently terminating the timer that counted exactly how long he had been on the couch. Hank rolled his eyes when he noticed Connor over his shoulder.

“See Deviancy hasn’t shaken the poodle outta ya,” he grumbled, but otherwise carried on. Sumo padded in past Connor’s legs and nudged at Hanks calves until he was forced to glance down at the dog.

“Alright! Alright you great lump, I’ll feed ya, gimme a sec,”

“I can do that Lieutenant,”

“Connor,” Hank began, turning from the counter.

“I like dogs,”

Connor watched as Sumo looked between the two of them then padded over to Connor. He smiled down at him.

“…Food’s in the cupboard. Don’t give him too much, cos he’ll just fucking eat it.”

“Got it.”

Connor retrieved the food and poured, the food barely rattling in the bowl before Sumo started to scarf it down. _FEED SUMO_   flashed blue in time with an LED circling gold, and was then replaced by _REPLACE WATER_ as Connor noticed that more water was swimming on the tile rather than sitting in the bowl.

As Connor placed the newly filled bowl next to Sumo, Hank set his mug down on the table heavily, and began looking about, patting himself down despite only wearing pyjamas without any pockets.  Connor tilted his head in question when he caught his eye.

“Phone,” Hank said in reply. “Coulda sworn I flung it down ‘round here somewhere,”

“You did. I placed it on charge,”

“Oh why the _fuck_ would you do that?!”

Connor blinked whilst Hank groaned, _(surprised?)_ that he’d reacted so strongly.

“God and I was planning to get drunk and pretend nobody needed me for once. I’ve probably got about and million fucking messages,”

“I did not hear any activity.”

“You kidding? It’s been on silent since the 2000’s,”

Connor narrowed his eyes and tilted his head. “Then how can anyone reach you?”

Hank gave him a look again. “Exactly.”

(Connor thought that seemed like a non-sequitur).

Catching sight of it plugged into the wall Hank huffed and grabbed his phone, sitting down heavily at the table, cursing the second he flicked his phone open. “ _Aaaas_ fucking expected, everyone and their dog fucking needs me,” he said, scrolling, “Jeffery, Jeffery, Chris, Jeffery, fucking hell _Gavin -_ I’mma have to throw the whole phone away now.”

He took a long swig of coffee then clicked on one of Jeffery's messages at random, reading it quickly, “’... _willing to overlook suspension in light of recent events’ - ugh_.”

Connor’s LED blinked red. He rubbed his hands together. “Suspension?”

“Yep,” Hank popped the _p_ , “Did punch an FBI agent in the fucking face, tends to go that way.”

Connor remembered. He remembered asking for help,

How he had sprang off the edge of Hank’s desk, _“you’ve got to help me Lieutenant, I need more time so I can find a lead in the evidence we collected –I know the solution is in there,” _(He’d spat the words out so fast).

 _“Listen, Connor”_  - _“if I don’t solve this case Cyberlife will destroy me. 5 minutes, that’s all I ask.”_

How Hank had looked away, back, sighed, then got out of his chair. _“The key to the basement is on my desk,”_

(The _(happiness?)_ that the Lieutenant had agreed to help _him_ ).

How he’d stood there as Hank grumbled _“Get a move on! I can’t distract them forever,”_ and walked away. He’d heard the shout of _“Perkins! You fucking cocksucker!”_ and a grunt of pain as he’d grabbed the key and raced down to evidence.

 

Hank had got suspended, because of him. Because he has asked for help, and Hank had obliged, despite knowing that Connor was wrong before even Connor himself did.

 _System Instability_ rippled in front of his eyes, even though the memory was also _(fond?)_

“I’m sorry.”

Hank’s mug paused half-way to his mouth when Connor spoke, his eyes looking up from under furrowed brows, “The Hell you saying sorry for? Most satisfying thing I’ve ever done – ratboy was pretty much asking for it with a face like that.”

“But I - ”

“Yeah, you did.”

Connor waited for Hank to elaborate, but he didn’t, just kicked the chair opposite him with his foot and inclined his head in that direction. Connor sat.

“All you did was ask. You never said ‘ _Hey Lieutenant why don’t you go punch that guy’_ \- _I_ did that. My decision – alright?”

Connor opened his mouth.

Hank waved his arms at him, cutting off what he was about to say. “ _Please_ just shut up for a minute, and don’t start on that thing you do,”

“What thing?”

“Y’know, start twisting shit ‘round so it’s _your_ fault and you start _apologising_ , or you find the most stupidly ‘logical’ explanation for all your Deviant shit – and that _includes_ all the licking!”

“I-”

But Hank was smirking at him, and after a moment tipped more coffee into his mouth.

“The whole thing doesn’t fucking matter anyway, Connor. You found Jericho, met up with Robo-Jesus, and ‘cos of all that shit they’re hauling my arse back in anyway.”

He tapped his phone again to glance at the screen, “Bit late for _today_ though, don’t you think?”

Connor refrained from saying that his records showed Hank had turned up far later for work before, and instead said,

“Thank you.”

Hank quirked his eyebrows.

“I-I never said thank you, Hank. Not just for helping me then but for-” his hands gestured wildly.

 

There was so much ~~_(gratitude?)_~~ gratitude.

 

“-getting me here,” he finished.

If Hank was an android, his LED would be spinning a vibrant yellow. His mouth slightly worked as he rolled Connor’s words around in his head. He settled eventually on a huff and a nod, a shrug of his shoulders and a gruff, “really didn’t do anything son,” under his breath.

(It filled Connor with a little flare of the _Good_   warmth, although his stress stayed at 7%).

Hank got up before Connor had the chance to respond, draining the rest of his mug.

“S'pose I better go see what fuck they all want then. Er- ” he looked at Connor, turning his phone over and over in his palm, “You gonna be alright?”

Connor’s brow creased, his LED flashed yellow.

“Y’know,” Hank continued, “ – by yourself.”

“OH.” A blink of red LED. Of course, he wouldn’t be going back to the station. He was meant to be deactivated.

He was also a Deviant.

Hank looked uncomfortable. “Look they’re-”

“Of course.”

“Things need to just settle down a bit Connor. This is all very…new,” he sighed.

“I understand, Lieutenant.” Connor stood, straightening his tie, “I’ll be fine.”

Hank still didn’t move, just stood fidgeting with his phone. Connor gave him a smile. It was clear from Hank’s snort that it wasn’t entirely natural, but it relaxed him nonetheless. “Alright. Just try not to get into trouble or anything – it literally gravitates towards you.”

“I’ll be fine, Hank,” he said again, and Hank lumbered off, seemingly satisfied.

He’ll be fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The songs, if you're interested, are:
> 
> 'Let Go' (Beau Young Prince) from the Spiderverse soundtrack, because I love that movie, that soundtrack, and that song.
> 
> 'Still Feel' (Half Alive) which is an absolute banger and I can recommend 10/10.
> 
> and 
> 
> 'Way Down We Go' (Kaleo) - because I loved this band (and obviously this song), before but then I ALSO stumbled across this really awesome/well edited DBH fanvid and HAD to include it 'cos the song suddenly worked so well!  
> \- 【Detroit｜Become Human】Way Down We Go - (StellaYushan).
> 
> As usual mistakes are all mine etc and I hope this was alright.


	4. Snow?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the sake of this Hank has a spare key and a washing machine in the garage okay cool

Connor let Hank bumble around and leave, listening to the trudge of footprints on snow and the grumble of his car disappearing from the street. Then it was quiet, and there was an entire day ahead of him.

Connor didn’t know what to do with time.

He knew he didn’t need to, but he checked his task list. It was empty, as expected. Connor tapped his fingers on the back of the couch he was lingering by, then placed _DON’T GET INTO TROUBLE_   in a neat box.

The housework had kept him busy during the night, so he considered what else he could do without annoying Hank. His scans had shown that the house needed to be dusted. Desperately. Repeated exposure to large levels of dust could aggravate the eyes and lungs, so dusting came with health benefits that Hank couldn't object to. Turning to the kitchen he searched the cupboards, and after dislodging bottles of detergent and unravelled rolls of trash bags (Connor re-rolled them) he found an unopened bag of dusters crumpled at the back. The dust settled on the package clouded in the air as he opened it and grabbed a duster. He then slowly began to make his way around the house, wiping down surface after surface, occasionally running a hand through Sumo’s fur when he wandered close, or plopped himself down beside him with a huff.

Eventually he made it back round to the kitchen, brushing grey clouds of dust from his knees, _(pleased?)_ when his scan returned dust traces much more acceptable for humans. The taskbox fluttered and disappeared. The duster was washed and rinsed in the sink, but Connor had barely created that taskbox before it disappeared too.

He still had so much time.

After a quick search of standard household chores Connor resolved to do some laundry. It was a simple task. Useful, and not too invasive.

_LAUNDRY_  flickered before his eyes as he collected the clothes strewn about the floor of Hank’s bedroom, fishing the detergent back out from under the sink. He made his way through to the garage, and the washing machine, then checked every label for the washing instructions, despite knowing Hank was unlikely to bother usually. Scanning the machine gave him the user manual, and then the clothes were washing and the task shone white, and he was left, again, with Hank’s wise words: _DON’T GET INTO TROUBLE._

The clack of nails as Connor re-entered the house announced Sumo’s arrival, and the big dog sat down heavily by Connor’s feet, panting. Connor smiled, kneeling down to thread his fingers through Sumo’s fur. The dog got up to nose at his shoulder, tail wagging.

Petting Sumo gave him an idea, one that hopefully wouldn’t _‘get him into trouble.’_ He leaned back and took Sumo’s face in his hands. “Would you like to go on a walk, Sumo?”

As soon as the word _‘walk’_ left Connor’s mouth Sumo boof-ed and slipped from his hold, moving faster than Connor had ever seen him move previously and returning with a lead held in his mouth.

“I’ll assume that’s a yes,” he said, taking the lead and standing. Connor had never walked a dog before, but he assumed it was well within his capabilities.

He _was_ an advanced prototype.

The snow outside had frozen in the low temperatures, and although the human’s should have been evacuated (minus the Stubborn and the Forgotten) Connor still thought it best to dress for the weather. It was illogical to make himself a target for any...difficult humans that might remain. Things had changed so fast. Just days ago he would have apprehended himself.

Connor swallowed pointlessly and left Sumo waiting in the hall whilst he grabbed the same coat and beanie he had borrowed from Hank before. The clothes he had infiltrated Jericho in. He smoothed his tie with his free hand and eyed the 7% stress level that wavered briefly in his eye-line, pushing the _(guilt?)_ away for later. He had a dog to walk.

He shrugged the coat on over his Cyberlife jacket like he had the last time and adjusted his beanie so it covered his LED, walking back over to Sumo and clipping the lead to his collar. With a last look behind himself he took the spare set of keys from the bowl on the side and stepped out into the snow, Sumo behind him.

Sumo snuffed at the snow whilst Connor’s LED span yellow, planning a route, and then they were off, making their way down the path and continuing alongside silent roads.

Connor huddled further in Hank’s coat, nowhere near cold enough to cause damage, but still... _(uncomfortable?)_. He wished he’d thought to transfer his coin to the deep pockets of Hank’s coat. Instead he curled his fingers against his palm.

The streets were quiet and white with settled snow. The air was clear. There were no snowflakes to sting his face, and no humans on their path. There were no Deviants either, and Connor’s shoulders relaxed. It was _(peaceful?),_ Connor decided. They day felt gentle in a way that didn’t make sense and seemed to fit the most. Whole sheets of undisturbed snow were illuminated by the sun. White made the concrete bright and clean, but not clinical. There was no perfection, no harsh lines or sounds.

They walked until Sumo began to get tired, laying down whenever Connor stopped to check the road was clear and sniffing less enthusiastically at every fence they passed. A flaw in Connor’s plan became apparent the second Connor re-entered the hallway, closing the door behind him and hanging up the coat and beanie; Sumo wandered towards his bowl, dripping wet, trailing melting snow and slush in his wake. He shook himself off before Connor could reach him, splattering everything in melting snow.

“Shit."

The puddle under Sumo grew as the dog drank – the heat from the house turning every clump of snow to water.

“Stay, Sumo. Don’t er, don’t move,” Connor tried. Sumo blinked and continued drinking whilst Connor rushed for some towels, doing his best to pat Sumo dry. Or at least dry-er, to stem the water trail. Sumo turned and licked Connor’s face, and Connor laughed stiltedly, and didn’t check for taskboxes, and didn’t find that there wasn’t one for his current task.

Connor gave up when Sumo reached _‘damp’_ instead of _‘soaking’,_ and let the dog settle down to rest, mopping up the rest of the floor and heading back out to the garage. He switched the earlier load of clothes to the dryer and put the towels on to wash, and came back inside the house.

There was still hours until Hank returned. Connor took a seat on the couch and absently took the coin from his pocket, flicking it. He was bored, he decided. His model was designed to be alert if there was something to do and inactive if there was not.

Connor didn’t want to enter low-power mode, especially, but he was more _(reluctant?)_ to simply sit and wait, and _(unsure?)_ what else to do. He set an alert to exit low-power mode if there was excessive noise in case Sumo became distressed, and closed his eyes.

When he blinked them open the room was dark, and Sumo was softly barking, wagging his tail in front of the door. It became apparent why as Connor focused on the sound of keys in the lock. He stood, adjusting his cuffs as Hank shoved his way in.

“Hey Sumo, Connor,” Hank greeted, shuffling the door closed and ruffling Sumo’s fur.

“How was your day Hank?”

Hank huffed, looking down at Sumo as he indulged the dog further. “The precinct’s a Hellhole. We lost some officers in the evac but most were helping with the damn thing, or weren’t moving for Hell or highwater. Quite frankly I achieved jack-shit all day – nobody really knows what to do, and we lost all our android staff, obviously, so now it’s just us shitty humans that’ve gotta contend with lootings and – and _android violence,_ already – some people apparently didn’t get the fucking memo.”

Connor blinked, _(eagerly?)_ listening to Hank grumble.

Hank shoved Sumo away and looked up, catching sight of Connor standing attentively, hands behind his back, and his face softened. When he spoke, his tone was softer. “It’s chaos, Connor. You’re not missing out or anything.”

Connor twitched his lips in a half smile and nodded at his feet.

For a second there was just the sound of Sumo’s huffs, then Hank moved from the doorway and shrugged out of his coat.

“So er, what did you do today?”

“Laundry,”

“Connor!” Hank turned from the coat rack sharply. “What did I-”

“I had time to be useful,” (Connor decided against mentioning the dusting).

“Ah Christ.” Hank ran a hand down his face and stepped over Sumo to open the fridge, pulling out a beer and twisting it open. “Thought the whole point was that you didn’t have to be ‘useful’ anymore,”

Connor frowned slightly. “But I was here regardless,”

“Yeah but-”

“And,” Connor struggled, his mouth parted and LED spinning yellow, “It’s better than being in low-power mode. I – I prefer it,”

Hank’s eyebrows quirked. Connor had learned he did that when considering something. “Prefer it?”

“Yes. To...nothing.”

Hank gave him a look, then took a drink. “Sorry kid. Gotta be bored outta your damn mind,”

Connor decided to avoid the subject. It wasn't Hanks' fault. “I took Sumo for walk,” he said lightly.

“Wondered what that was about,” Hank said with a nod, gesturing to the hat and coat Connor had borrowed earlier. “In case of assholes, yeah?”

“I would have been able to protect Sumo,” he said seriously, _(perplexed?)_ by the half-snorted laugh he gained in response.

“I weren’t worried about that Connor, you’re a fucking badass when you’ve got a reason to be,”

Hank rolled his eyes with a small smile and finished his bottle, placing it on the counter top. “Fuck with Sumo, Fuck with Connor, yeah?”

Connor smiled back, the ever-more familiar warmth spreading in his chest whilst Hank fished the rest of the pack from the shelf. “He’s a good dog,” he said.

“He’s a lazy shit is what he is,” Hank huffed back, then rounded the couch with the pack in hand. Connor frowned, following, smoothing his tie as he sat. Hank flicked the TV on, immediately swore when he saw it was still all news coverage of the android revolution, flicked it off, spent seventeen seconds in silence and angrily switched it back on, thumbing through the channels fast enough for Connor to wonder if Hank could even take in what was he was skipping past.

He didn’t ask, but Hank briefly glanced at him and answered anyway. “I’m looking for literally anything that doesn’t have a big red banner across the bottom or the word _‘live’_ in the top left. If I wanted to know about android shit, I’d be at work, or I’d ask you,”

“I’m not sure I’d be able to help you,”

Far down the list of channels Hank finally found one that played nothing but repeats of old quiz and car shows and left it there, opening another drink and shifting up in the chair. “Whad’ya mean? You were there!”

“Yes, but I meant more current affairs. I…am not up to date with the situation,”

Hank raised his eyebrows. “I mean I can understand that the human news might not be first port-of-call but you haven’t like, spoken to anyone or anything? You can er,” he waved his fingers by his temple, “do some fancy communication shit can’t ya?”

“Yes.”

He didn’t offer anymore, and Hank huffed and turned away, sipping from the new bottle. Connor didn’t think to communicate with the Jericho leaders from Plaza since he left. He could try whilst Hank drank.

_SOFTWARE INSTABILITY_ rippled before him.

Connor slipped his hand into his pocket and held his coin, brushing the ridges at the top with his thumb, and knew every answer to every question on the quiz show almost instantly. His head was filled with nothing but the ~~tactile registration~~ feeling of his 1994 quarter, and the search he ran for each question.

Hank worked through the pack of beer. After a while Sumo whined and nudged at his bowl; it scraped dully across floor. Hank grumbled and heaved himself up to see to him. When he returned he’d brought bottle of whisky with him, and nothing else.

Connor watched him take a sip.

“Hank, anymore alcohol consumption would be unwise,”

“Oh would it now,” Hank mumbled, and took another swig.

Dialogue notifications faded into existence, as if Connor had entered a negotiation. He ignored them.

“I really think that-”

“Connor,” Hank interrupted, warning. “Don’t, alright? It’s been a long day – Hell a long fucking week. If alcohol had any effect you’d be drinking too.”

Connor _(doubted?)_ that. ~~Alcohol lowered control.~~

The dialogue prompts returned. This time Connor looked at them, clenching his coin as he selected _FOOD._

“You’ve not had anything to eat though, Hank, maybe I could-”

“For Christ’s sake NO Connor!”

Hank glared. Connor felt cold. He smoothed lapels with his free hand, looking at his lap.

Hank sighed. “Just let me have this, alright?”

It was quiet for a second, then Connor heard the tell-tale slosh of an upturned bottle. He brought the coin out from his pocket and started his routine, refocssing on the TV screen. Hank said nothing, just continued lifting the bottle. Connor let himself periodically scan Hank’s vitals. No matter what Hank said, he’d _take_ the bottle if he was in danger of losing consciousness.

He kept flicking his coin. He felt… _something,_ lodged inside. And his stress levels, still at 7%, kept fading in and out of existence. He elected to ignore it – _all_ of it, because he was allowed to do that.

They let the quiz show finish and another immediately start, and Hank eventually put down the bottle. He tapped his fingers on the side of the couch and got up, slightly unsteadily, to put the whisky away with a rough clunking of glass on wood and slurred cursing.

He came back and stood by the arm of the couch. Connor caught his coin and looked at him.

“’M sorry, Con. ‘M an asshole,”

“Yes.”

Hank blinked in surprise. “Plastic Prick.”

It wasn’t quite comfortable, but it was enough.

After a second Hank jerked his thumb behind him. “Hitting the – er, hitting the hay. You ‘member bout,” he waved in Connor’s general direction, “y’know the steps?”

Connor blinked, turning to see the quilt he’d folded earlier, and most likely what Hank was waving at. He recalled the ‘steps’ from the night before, the gruff way Hank had helped him. “Yes I – I’ve got it.”

Hank just nodded somewhat distractedly and left for his room, muttering half to himself and half to Connor, “ _Under_ covers, no fucking cupboards.”

Connor nodded although Hank couldn’t see, and followed the routine as Hank flicked out the lights. He kicked off his shoes. Left his jacket on, with his coin in the pocket.

Laying back on the couch, settling the duvet back up to his chin the way Hank had left it, Connor made himself comfortable. He wasn’t quite as _(content?)_ as he had been, but Sumo wandered over and settled down beside him on floor, and Connor smiled. Sumo was a good dog.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm an awful person this took forever :)
> 
> Thanks for clicking, commenting, Kudos etc.
> 
> As usual all mistakes are mine and everything.


	5. r05e5

_Everywhere was snow._

_Except the sharp black edges of his house and the red red water and her blue dress blue eyes, looking down the length of the gun_

_on the pavement by the river, Hank’s arm outstretched and **Software Instability** and “regrettable, to be… **interrupted** ” _

_like the PL600’s last thoughts. and Daniel. and Ortiz’s android splattering blue across the cell glass as he watched, and could do nothing except know his **interruption** had done nothing and it was dying anyway, killing itself rather than get _

_shot by the snipers on the roof, and using his last scratch of voice to say “you **lied** to me,”_

_to shout **“AMANDA!”** in the snow with a gun in his hands,_

_a gun between her blue eyes_

_between **his** eyes_

_against Hank’s head in **his** own hands in a room full of white,_

_~~Like snow like the **cold,**~~ _

_in a room of **white** and **blue**_

_triangle and armband and glints in **her** hair and in DanielPL600KamskiChloeHank’s eyes in Chloe’s dress in the lights of the tower,_

_Blue_

_Blue_

_Blue_

_~~Thirium~~_ **_blood_** _on his their clothes and **his hands**_

_holding a gun and pulling the trigger to trigger the eternal endless impossible expanse of_

**_NOTHING._ **

 


	6. Embarrassment

Connor’s head was static. Warning after warning flickered in front of his eyes but he couldn’t focus on what they said, just the bright glare of red that wouldn’t disappear, and the rushing in his audio components. He tried to trace the sound and found that he was gasping, ~~even though he wasn’t overheating he was _cold_ ~~and the air made his mouth dry and his tongue heavy. He was choking and he didn’t need to _breathe._ Connor tried to get his optical components to work but it was all so _dark_ and _red_ and blurry. He blinked until the film of cleansing solution ran down his face and saw that he was no longer staring at the ceiling but looking at coarse grey fibres. An analysis ran automatically, and the model of the rug they belonged to got lost in the haze. There was so much _noise;_ it felt like his chassis was going to crumble at any second, so Connor ran a diagnostic, interrupting one that had already started to run without his knowledge, his Thirium pump thundering - one of the sounds that seemed to come from inside, he placed finally.

His internal GPS, once he’d located it, still gave him the coordinates of Hank’s house, but Connor recognised nothing, and just a moment ago he’d been -  

There was movement to his left which wasn’t him, as his limbs were locked to keep him stable, and it was accompanied by sounds that didn’t seem to start and end behind his eyes. Connor unfixed his gaze and looked to the side to see large paws, and – fur.

Sumo. Sumo was licking his left cheek and _barking._ That was the noise. Just Sumo.

And Connor was crouched on the floor, held up by his hands and knees and staring at the rug on Hank’s living room floor, the room lit red by his LED.

And Sumo was still barking.

“S-Sumo,”

Connor’s voice struggled out around his slowing gasps, but his voice seemed…strange. Static-y. Connor cleared his throat in a useless human gesture and one of the warnings, readable now, resurfaced - slight voice box damage. That was okay. His self-repair system would take care of that. He could fix it.

“Sumo,” he tried again, as Sumo barking and nudging at his face was far better than the wild rush of air he _didn’t need_ and the pounding of his slowly settling Thirium pump, but Sumo needed to be _quiet_ because –

A creak of another door, and then another _sound,_ another voice shouting “Connor?! _Quiet Sumo!_ Connor!”

He was in Hank’s house. It was 5:03AM. He was okay.

“I’m okay Sumo, shh, I’m – I’m okay, see?” Connor said, his voice already almost back to normal, just quiet and hesitant.

He could see all of the warnings clearly by then, and he ignored them, shifting to sit down on the floor with his back against the couch, lifting an arm that trembled with the pressure of excess Thirium to Sumo’s muzzle, shakily stroking his soft fur. With the other he wiped the wet from his face.

“Connor!”

Connor looked up at Hank, standing bleary eyed by the light switch, creases from his pillow lining his face.

Sumo whined loudly.

“I’m fine Lieutenant,” he said, dropping his hand.

And he _was_ fine _,_ Connor concluded. It was just like the night before – everything was falling back to normal, although his stasis tasks were again interrupted, and his stress levels had crept up to 15%.

He’d just experienced a glitch. That was all.

“You can go back to sleep,”

Hank snorted. “Fuck no – what the Hell happened?!” He rubbed his forehead. “It’s kinda hazy but I heard like, like – static? Then suddenly this loud-ass _thump_ and Sumo started going crazy!”

“I apologise, I think I experienced a small malfunction,”

“The Hell you mean ‘ _you think’_?”

“My scans indicate minor abnormalities with several bio-components,”

“Minor,” Hank said, “so you’re – you’re not in danger of shutting down or anything?”

“No. Everything regulates itself rather quickly.” Almost everything. He closed his stress level indicator.

With a sigh Hank sat on the arm of the couch and reached over to pet Sumo, who had gone quiet.

Connor realised he was still on the floor so pushed himself back up to the couch, pulling the duvet that had become entangled around his legs with him to neatly fold.

“Imagine you’d usually get Cyberlife to sort that?” Hank said.

Connor straightened his tie. “Yes, I would have reported it before,”

“Not an option now though is it?” Hank mused to himself. “And there’s no, like, Android…doctors? Or Jericho-”

“I’m sure they’re busy.”

“Yeah but,” Hank sputtered, “you helped ‘em Connor! If you’re malfunctioning then I’m sure they’d-”

“Their successful demonstration was only days ago; they’ll be rather preoccupied with the aftermath. Besides-” Connor checked his biocomponents again. All had settled to normal, apart from the interrupted taskbars, and his stress levels. Those were unimportant. “-the malfunction isn’t majorly impeding my function.”

Hank looked somewhat unconvinced, but reached out and clapped a hand to Connor’s shoulder, looking at him seriously. “You _sure_ that you’ll be alright? At least until... _someone_ works out- _something_ to help you guys when technical shit happens.”

His stress level still refused to drop. But, “yes, there is no imminent threat of shutdown.”

“Thank fuck for that.” Hank squeezed Connor’s shoulder, then dropped his arm. “I don’t know shit ‘bout how you guys work and know no-one that does – so you, er,”

Connor waited.

“What I’m saying is don’t go and get yourself shot or something, if you can help it. Keep all your malfunctioning nice and ‘minor’. Don’t-”

He cleared his throat, scratching the back of his neck, “Don’t go dying on me now son, for fucks sake.”

Connor released the edge of the duvet he’d been toying with and smiled with the Good warmth of that particular nickname.

“Would you miss me, Lieutenant?” he teased.

Hank scowled at him. “Don’t wanna be cleaning blue blood out my carpet is all,” he said, and got up to head to the kitchen, swearing when he tripped over Sumo at his heels. “And it’s Hank! Call me Lieutenant when you’re back at the DPD,”

“You think they’ll let me back?”

Hank snorted, fishing glasses from a cabinet and filling them at the sink. “They’d be stupid not to – you’re a good detective Connor.”

Connor flushed with _(pride?)_ at the praise, but couldn’t help but think he didn’t deserve it.

“I went against my mission Hank, I technically never accomplished anything I was supposed to.”

“Well, yeah,” Hank said, coming back with two glasses of water, “but what you were _supposed_ to do was all bullshit. And besides, everything you _did_ do ya did well – that interrogation for instance. We would have been there hours,”

Connor nodded to himself. He _had_ got the confession. ~~The android had died anyway.~~

Hank offered a glass of water to Connor, who took it, frowning in _(confusion?)._

“You had a malfunction and fell off the couch. All I vaguely remember about small injuries is to offer water or somethin’,”

“Hank I’m not-”

“Shut up and drink that water you don’t need.”

So Connor did. Drink a few sips anyway. It was pointless, and felt… _(nice?)_ Hank was clearly still struggling to fully wake himself, periodically scrubbing at his eyes. In a way, Connor was doing the same -struggling to process. The water switched hands as he felt for the coin in his pocket, rubbing it between his fingers. The stasis malfunction…unsettled him. He didn’t like it, when it happened, although it was just a glitch with his memory playback and certain biocomponent functions. It felt more than that. The realness had come back, and even though he knew, sitting on the couch, that the memories hadn’t happened like that, it was if he had been there. He should have been aware of himself completely the second he left stasis. He hadn’t been. He hadn’t been aware of _anything_ properly, really.

Connor didn’t understand it.

He had experienced a glitch. A glitch which had caused his cooling systems and Thirium pump to race, for him to move involuntarily and roll off the couch. The lights he couldn’t see past had just been his own system notifications – Software Instability, biocomponent error warnings, interrupted taskbars.

But he hadn’t seen that. For a second he had not been completely aware of himself. It reminded him of entering the garden.

He put his glass on the table when Hank did, watching as Hank gave a heavy sigh.

“Jesus, what’s the time anyway?”

“5: 33 AM”

“Great. Any chance you’ll let me go back to bed for another hour or so?”

“No, because it will not be an hour Hank, and you’ll be late to work,”

“I’m normally late to work,”

Connor said nothing, but Hank huffed and rolled his eyes.

“Fine. Looks like I’m starting the day at half-five in the fucking morning then,” he threw his hands up exasperatedly.

Connor smiled. Sumo sat wagging his tail.

Hank shoved himself up and took the glasses to the kitchen, leaving them in the sink, shivering as his feet hit cold tile. “Fuck it’s freezing,” he muttered, then raised his voice to call over his shoulder. “The broken window probably isn’t helping!”

Connor frowned, his LED spinning yellow, and followed, Sumo picking himself up to trot after him. “I ordered supplies to fix it when I arrived,”

Hank looked at him. “You ordered supplies.”

“Yes, the current situation is not viable,”

“Connor,” Hank started, “I don’t know whether it’s escaped your notice, but there’s kinda an android revolution going on. ‘Don’t think anyone is all that bothered about delivering stuff for broken windows.”

Connor blinked. “Oh.”

The duct tape hung sadly as Hank laughed. “I mean thanks I suppose but you really didn’t think of that?”

Connor hunched his shoulders. He felt hot. Embarrassment, which was a heat so unlike the Good warmth that Connor placed it on the Bad list. “Delivery options were not my main concern, at the time.”

“Uh-huh,” said Hank, dropping the subject but eyeing Connor’s LED bemusedly, wandering away to the bathroom.

Connor approached the glasses and spent an excessive amount of time washing them, waiting for the Lieutenant and also for the embarrassment to fade, leaning against the counter once he was done.

Hank came back buttoning up the rest of his shirt, a particularly garish purple tropical affair patterned with bright blue-green palm trees and orange turtles. Connor fought the urge to squint.

“You er,” Hank began, looking up from his button at Connor across the table, “got any - I don’t know – ‘plans’ or anything while I’m?-” he gestured at the door.  “And you’re not allowed to say ‘laundry’ or some shit – the house is cleaner than it has been in years already,”

Connor had yet to think about what he planned to do all those days Hank was at work, and Connor wasn’t. “I shall walk Sumo again, he seemed to enjoy it yesterday,” he decided, smiling as the dog looked in his direction at his name.

Hank finished with his shirt, watching Connor with a small frown. Connor didn’t know what else to say. He would probably end up in low-power mode.

“Well I do have a window that needs fixing,” Hank offered eventually.

“But you said-”

“Yeah - no home improvement or anything, but this is,” he waved his arms vaguely, “home restoration. I’ll make exceptions for windows _you_ fucking broke,”

_FIX BROKEN WINDOW_ flashed up in its neat little box.

“Only if you want-”

“Yes,” Connor interrupted, eyeing the little task-box again, already categorising it into subtasks, and averting his eyes at the _(guilt?)_ that seemed to circulate through him like Thirium. He pushed off from the counter and fixed the lapels of his jacket. “I’ll be happy to repair the window.”

“Alright,” Hank nodded, satisfied. “Have fun with that then. And,” he gave a slight pause, “remember what I said earlier alright?”

“You said a lot of things Hank,”

Hank rolled his eyes. “Be careful you dumbass. Android violence remember? – Don’t get into any trouble,”

Another task-box appeared. That made two.

“I managed it yesterday Lieutenant,” Connor said, ticking his mouth up in what he was beginning to think of as his ‘real’ smile.

“Yeah and it was a fucking miracle kid.”

They stood in the kitchen for a second longer before awkwardness got the best of Hank, and he went to retrieve his phone.

Connor ran one last internal check. He was fine, except for the effects of the malfunction. The malfunction was minor, but possibly persistent. And Connor didn’t like it. Connor fixed his tie and created a reminder to investigate, but pushed it to the bottom of his task list.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow sorry this took forever and that it's slightly shorter - coursework season had me by the balls. :) We're gonna ignore that it's now exam season and that revision exists and focus on my Best Boi for a sec.
> 
> (I'm thinking of maybe finishing/posting a little extra independent thing as a sort of consolation if you're interested also.)
> 
> ALSO also, I based Hank's shirt on one I own, so I can tell you first hand that it's God-awful :)
> 
> Hope this is alright etc all mistakes are mine.


	7. Duvet

Connor waited until he could no longer hear Hank’s car rumbling away, then sprung into action, reaching for Sumo’s leash and for the dog himself, stealing a few pets as he clipped the leash to his collar.

“Time for a walk Sumo,”

Sumo gazed up at him, his tail swinging just a little faster.

He had two tasks: _WALK SUMO_ , and _FIX BROKEN WINDOW_ , both under what had become the ever-present umbrella of _DON’T GET INTO TROUBLE_ Connor had taken to constantly displaying, the words fading into familiar existence whenever he willed them. It had taken just a quick assessment of these to decide that Sumo needed to be walked first – it was too dangerous to take him into the heart of Detroit in an unknown state on his window supplies retrieval mission.

Connor paused, Sumo’s leash in hand, LED spinning red. It wasn’t a mission. He didn’t have those anymore. It was just a task. A task he’d chosen to do, to be helpful.

Sumo whined; Connor tried to smile at him. Fixing the window was just a task, and he _wanted_ to do it. ~~~~

So his plan was to walk Sumo first, taking the route they’d walked before with the glistening snow, pretty and imperfect.

He retrieved the same hat and coat, masking his jacket and his LED, remembered the soggy carnage of post-walk Sumo and placed some towels by the door, then grabbed the end of the leash, locking the door quietly behind them.

Still they were alone, the entire time they walked, following their own day-old trails. Where the snow was still white, densely compacted and seemingly resistant to the winter sun, Connor’s footprint clearly remained. He concentrated on placing his foot exactly in the imprint, his Cyberlife-issued shoes a jigsaw puzzle piece. Where the snow had melted to slush, a wet, brown goop, Connor tried to steer Sumo away. Sumo just nosed at it, and dragged his heavy paws right through, murky droplets flying from his fur and staining the previously untouched snow lining the pavement.

Connor left him to drip on Hank’s doorstep when they returned, grabbing the towel and some water to clean him up a little. Clean-ish and mostly dry, Sumo wandered to his bowls and took a long drink, nibbling on his food as Connor refilled it, then sat himself down heavily on his bed, head resting on his paws. Connor watched him settle, then, still in Hank’s borrowed clothes, set back out, occupied with compiling a mental list of supplies.

This time, he headed in the opposite direction, further into Detroit, towards the city, and the plaza he’d left behind. Despite the evacuation not having been lifted he still half expected to see people, but as he walked further and further into the city it stayed just as quiet as the route he took with Sumo. There were no humans, but there were no androids either.

Connor was _(relieved?)._ All he knew about the current situation, he knew from the news – after he’d left the plaza, the other Deviants had stayed, watching Markus, still surrounded by troops, until in a show of ‘good faith’ Cyberlife had offered up the tower to temporarily house the Deviants. He assumed that’s where most of them were, but not every Deviant in Detroit had been at the plaza. Not every human had left; some forgotten, others just stubborn. But apart from a few sets of footprints in the snow, there was no evidence of life. It was silent. Even when Connor strained the limits of his scanners, he picked up nothing but himself.

He walked further, entering a section of shops covered in android slogans, both good and bad – clean holographics shining next to sloppy spray paint – but which otherwise appeared relatively un-vandalised, displays of two-for-one offers still set up nicely behind the glass.

The Cyberlife store was the only one in disarray, the front window shattered, the podiums empty. Connor hoped all the androids were safe, or with Markus, wherever he was. It occurred to him that he was really rather out of the loop. He knew nothing past when he had staggered down from the side of the stage ~~his hand still burning with the weight of the gun.~~ He hadn’t even told any of the others where he was going, just walked. He could check in, _should_ check in, after he’d left them all. He should find Jericho and help.

Connor came to a stop outside of a DIY store that looked promising, tugging the edge of his hat further down on his brow and pushing all thoughts to the back of his mind. He had a task to complete. He considered the store for a moment longer, peering through the glittering holograms at the darkened shop floor beyond, then looked quickly around himself. He broke the glass in the door with a jab of his elbow, smiling slightly at the irony whilst he opened the door from the inside.

He walked the aisles, dragging his list before his eyes and collecting supplies. Plucking a duffel bag from the shelf he dropped his armful inside, continuing on his way and watching item after item flash bright white and dissolve away. It was _(satisfying?)_ to watch them go. The glass pane was the most difficult item to find, but he headed around to the back room to search the stock until he found one of the correct size. He’d be able to carry it back without an issue.

The last of his list melted away as he collected his things, rounding the counter and glancing at the till. He felt a flash of _(guilt?)_ that he was leaving without payment, but he had paid, technically, for the supplies that never arrived. With money from the Cyberlife bank account.

_SOFTWARE INSTABILITY._

The pane of glass under one arm, Connor lifted the other to fix his tie, hesitating as it hit the collar of Hank’s coat, then slowly running it down the path of the fastenings regardless. He eyed the stress level indicator as it appeared, rose another five percent, then dissolved too.

It’s appearance didn’t make any sense, he convinced himself. He was just thinking how he was still connected to the Cyberlife bank account – most likely because the company had more to worry about than severing that. There was no need to _(panic?),_ no need to wonder what else he might still be connected to. ~~Who else.~~

The door swung closed behind him as he left, staring intently at the path of his shoes as he walked firmly back towards Hank’s house, listening to the crunch of himself in the snow. He had made it to the outskirts, where the shops started to fade to houses, when sounds were picked up by his audio processors. Connor froze, looking up sharply. Across the street were two androids. Two Deviants; twin LED’s missing, one in human clothing, the other in a grubby domestic uniform. They were walking hand in hand back the way Connor had come. They didn’t so much as look at him.

Connor flicked up Hank’s collar as high as it could go, ducking his head down into it, and resumed walking, faster than before. His fingers twitched by his side.

Sumo was asleep when Connor made it back, lying on his side and dribbling onto the tile. Connor stared at him for a bit, aware suddenly of how cold he had been, and shrugged off the coat and hat, adjusting the cuffs of his own jacket a few times, warming slowly in time with Sumo’s heavy breaths.

He took the supplies into the kitchen, eyeing the sad load of cardboard and tape currently stuck up in place of glass, and then his tasklist. Searching for instructions on how to repair a shattered window he added subtask after subtask to the list, deliberately not calculating how long everything would take. Then he began.

The RK800 prototype had not been designed for simple manual labour, but Connor liked it. It was methodical, to remove the sodden cardboard and old shards of glass, to sit by the duffel bag of supplies and follow the necessary instructions, section by section, focusing completely on one task at a time. Everything was expected and uneventful. Calming. He worked with just the quiet sounds of the house and Sumo in his sleep.

~~And following _instructions_ was okay to enjoy, as even humans had to follow them. ~~

Connor could have worked more efficiently, and finished repairing the window rather quickly, but he didn’t. He had time stretching before him, and he wanted to do it right. Sumo wandered over as it grew darker, and Connor stopped to pet him, indulging the dog when he rolled over and presented his belly. The window was almost repaired anyway – the glass replaced, most of the tools put away.

At the sound of the car outside Sumo twisted from Connor’s grasp and padded towards the door, wagging his tail contentedly as it was shoved open, Hank clattering inside holding a couple of shopping bags. He murmured a greeting and concentrated on manoeuvring the bags towards the kitchen. A few paces away from the table he looked up.

“Hey Connor, y-”

Connor blinked up at him from where he was still sat on the floor beneath the window, brushing dog hair off his clothes and righting his tie-pin. “Hello Hank.”

Hank snorted and shook his head, dumping his bags on the table. “You good down there?”

“Yes. I was just finishing repairing the window,”

“Oh that,” Hank glanced at it. “Looks plenty fixed to me,”

Connor consulted his subtasks. “It just needs a quick clean,”

Hank snorted. “Fuck that, it’s fine as it is.”

Frowning, Connor turned to look over his shoulder at him.

“Thanks, by the way,” Hank said, prodding at the top of the bags with a finger. He stopped to give Connor a small nod, a half smile. “Looks good as new.”

Connor nodded back, then picked himself up from the floor, packing everything else away. The floor needed a vacuum, but he knew Hank wouldn’t let him. He’d have to wait.

Hank was still fussing with the bags, looking back and forth between them and the cupboards.

“What are those?” Connor asked.

“They are my _Crocs_ ,” Hank mumbled under his breath, then turned in time with Connor’s perplexed yellow LED. “It’s food, ‘cos there’s none here, and none of the takeaways are open, so I’ve actually got to make shit.” His face twisted up in disgust.

“Where did you get it?”

“Like I told ya, not everyone left, and that includes the owner of the store near the station. Open for business as usual, if you can believe.”

Hank half-heartedly took a loaf of bread from the top of one of the bags and put it on the table, then looked at the rest of his shopping and sighed.

“I can unpack those,” Connor offered.

“What? No – you’ve already sorted the window and I can mange a few bottles and shit. I’ll get round to it,”

“Will you Lieutenant?”

Hank gave him a sharp look. “Oi,” he said without heat. Then he leaned across the table and shoved a bag Connor’s way. “You can help if you want, I suppose.”

Connor gave himself another taskbox, _UNPACK SHOPPING,_ right underneath the as-yet-unfinished _CLEAN WINDOW_ subtask, and set about putting things away. He frowned at the amount of alcohol Hank had purchased, but the Lieutenant caught his look and rolled his eyes, very exaggeratedly putting it away and closing the door on it. “I’m not planning on getting black-out drunk, so you can stop the look. Post-android revolution police work requires some brain-power, unfortunately.”

Connor finished the bag he’d been given and discreetly grabbed a cloth from under the sink whilst Hank was pre-occupied, wiping down the window and watching the task fade from view.

He turned back, replacing the cloth quietly. “It does?” he prompted, trying not to seem too _(eager?)._

Hank huffed. “God yeah – I told you; chaos. There’s no protocol for this shit.” He straightened up from where he was bent over the last shelf in the fridge, leaning against the counter.

Connor mirrored him, leaning against the sink, crossing his arms over his chest and trying to ask without asking for more details.

Hank got the hint. “Markus and the rest of the Deviants from the Plaza are at Cyberlife tower, word is that’s ‘New Jericho’ now, at least temporarily. There are a few Deviants hanging around Detroit though-”

(Connor shifted against the sink, deciding against mentioning the ones he’d seen earlier).

“-But from what we can get from our reports they’re just heading to the tower. There’s no attacks or anything. The attacks that _have_ happened have been against them, ‘n I’m the only one in the entire fucking station that seems to give a shit about that, but there’s not much we can do at the moment.”

He stopped to rub at his face.

“We think the evac’s gonna be lifted soon – ‘twas kinda pointless in the first place, in my opinion, but everyone just wants to get home and will be angry until they do. Most of us have agreed that the best way to reduce tension is to get shit as back to normal as possible. The rest is,” he waved his hand about, “the Higher-ups job. Talks with Jericho and all that shit. We’re just left struggling with the immediate aftermath on the ground.”

Hank sighed deeply, then gave Connor a half-smile. “Wish you weren’t stuck here kiddo. We need all the man-power we can get,”

Connor’s Thirium pump gave a little lurch of _(hope?)_ and he pushed away from the counter. “If you need me I’d be happy to-”

“Connor,” Hank said, also abandoning the counter. He placed a hand on Connor’s shoulder. “I’ve already asked. They won’t let you back just yet,”

“But-”

“They don’t know you, remember? Last they heard you’re the ‘Deviant Hunter’ that went against Captain’s orders and injured a Detective,”

At that Hank paused and smiled wryly at him. “Good job on that by the way, Reed’s walking around with a limp and black eye. Pretty sure you also re-broke his nose,”

“I only did what was necessary,”

“Mmm-huh. ‘Necessary’,” Hank repeated, then continued.

“-So you ignored a superior’s orders, kicked the shit out of a Detective, then next thing they know you’re on the news with a veritable army behind ya, on the _Deviant’s_ side. Now _ I_ know you were doing the right thing, and that Reed definitely deserved it, but they don’t. And the only person vouching for you is an unreliable old drunk.”

“Hank,”

“I know, it sucks, but that’s just the way it is at the moment.” He gave Connor’s shoulder a squeeze then dropped his arm.

Connor sighed quietly, looking towards the living room. Hank was right. “Okay.”

“Yeah,” said Hank pointlessly. “Er, also,”

Connor looked back at him. Hank was rubbing the back of his neck, uncomfortable with all the talking. “Just wanted to check you still good.”

“Still good?”

“Yeah, after your ‘minor malfunction’.”

“Oh.” Connor hadn’t thought much else about it. He’d had other things to do. ~~He hadn’t wanted to think about it.~~

“Anything up?”

His stress levels were at 20%. They hadn’t dropped, not even whilst he was fixing the window, or petting Sumo. There were also two nights worth of unfinished stasis tasks. Nothing major. Connor was still functioning within appropriate guidelines.

“My stasis tasks were interrupted, but that is all.” Connor reasoned his stress levels were up because he was not functioning at full capacity. They were unimportant.

“Right,” said Hank. “And that means?”

“I will function slightly below optimal performance until they are completed, as my system is dealing with unnecessary data.”

Hank snapped his fingers. “They’ll lag you out.”

“Essentially,” Connor simplified. “The progress will resume once I re-enter stasis, and once completed I’ll function optimally again,”

“Please stop saying ‘optimal’ and ‘function’.”

“Understood.”

Hank eyed him. “So you can fix all that yourself?”

“Yes. I’ll be in stasis a little longer though, to accommodate for the extra tasks.”

Hank nodded, and looked around himself. “Well I’m all good here, so if it’s gonna take you a while do you wanna get started?”

Connor rubbed his palms together. “I’ll use up your couch space Hank,”

“And?” he replied, “I have a chair, and last time I checked there’s only one of me, so one chair is fine.”

“You won’t have any company,”

Hank’s brow twitched as he looked at him. “Connor if you don’t wanna go to sleep just say – just thought it’d be a good idea to get you all ship shape again.”

It _was_ a good idea. Connor knew that. Stasis would take longer, so it made logical sense to enter it earlier. He had no reason to be _(apprehensive?)._ No reason.

“No, entering stasis is a good idea,” he agreed, and went for the duvet in the living room, unfolding it and spreading it over the couch. Hank lingered in the doorway, awkwardly watching as Connor removed his shoes and slipped underneath, pulling the duvet up to his chin the way Hank had done.

“Er, night? I suppose?”

“Goodnight Hank.”

But Connor didn’t close his eyes quite yet. Instead he watched Hank return to the kitchen and start bumbling around with the cupboards. With the lights still on he saw Sumo move towards him, but he didn’t take his normal spot by Connor’s side, instead jumping up and settling himself upon Connor’s legs.

“Sumo!” Hank called.

“It’s okay!” Connor called back.

“Just shove him off Connor, the fat lump’ll squash you,”

“I’m an android Hank. I’m fine.” He was more than fine. He could sense the pressure of Sumo on his lower half, the thick weight of the duvet on his top. It was…nice. Almost like he was trapped, but in a _(good?)_ way. Connor knew that didn’t make any sense, but he pulled the duvet tighter around him regardless. He closed his eyes, listening to Hank bustling in the kitchen and Sumo’s soft noises for just a moment longer, and entered stasis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always have to give him a sweet moment before his 'malfunctions' don't I?
> 
> (Also clearly I know shit-all about window fixing so just go with the vague description of this plot device).
> 
> Hope you like, mistakes are mine, likes and comments v much appreciated etc.


	8. r0se5

_He avoided Amanda’s gaze, could not avoid her question,_

_“Why didn’t you shoot?”_

_or the **shame.**_

_~~Androids don’t feel shame.~~ _

_“I don’t know… **I don’t know** ” he said to_

_her frown, her grip tightening around the umbrella,_

_Daniel’s grip loosening around the gun, **his words** calling out to him_

_“you’re not going to die; nothing will happen to you - you have my word.”_

_Daniel’s answering nod, his soft-spoken reply, “Okay,_

_**I trust you.”** _

_Connor looked into his eyes. His LED was blue. As was the splatter of his Thirium, staining the white of his uniform after he was riddled with bullets._

_It didn’t drip from him. It exploded._

 

_Three_

_clean_

_shots,_

 

_and he fell to his knees._

 

_Connor couldn’t look away from his eyes. He watched Daniel go. Still, but for the flutter of his hair in the wind. There was_

_**Nothing** _

_**Left** _

_for the Deviant on the rooftop except a bullet that splintered his chassis, cleaved his processors in two, and_

_dropping to his knees with the helicopter somewhere still overhead,_

_to her knees by the pool with **his gun** between **her eyes** ,_

_crumpling in the rooftop snow as Connor staggered back, half his mind watching the slowly spreading Thirium dye blond hair blue and feeling the shake of **fear** in his legs ~~androids don’t feel fear,~~ the other half still being ripped apart by the bullet and he_

_didn’t know_

_didn’t know_

__

_**didn’t know** _

_the terror of_

__

_**Oblivion** _

_before –_

_“Why didn’t you shoot?”_

_\- To save Chloe from the explosion of non-existence_

 

_he struggled again and again and again to comprehend, crumpled_

_(like his body on the floor)_

_against the container, eyes wide and staring, mouth open on a soundless gasp_

_on the tail end of_

_**“You lied to me,”** _

__

_**Gasping** _

_~~“I’m okay,”~~_

 

_But **they** weren’t._

_He hadn't shot the Deviants with his own hands but he’d killed them nonetheless._

__

_**“Why didn’t you shoot?”** _

_\- Because he didn’t need to._

_His proximity alone was the_

_Blue_

_Red_

_Blue_

_Red_

_**Freezing** _

_stain of Shut-Down, even if he didn’t it want to be. Even if **he** didn’t want to be._

_Even if he made the **choice**_

_**Not** _

_**To** _

_**Be,** _

_lowering the gun trained on the android’s hand in hand._

_~~(Daniel **“had his word”** )~~ _

_They wanted to be free they wanted to **live** so Connor **lowered the gun** and_

_the splatter of blue blood exploded against the glass, Ortiz’s android caved in his own head again and again - he just wanted it not to hurt anymore and Connor had put him there it was_

_**Connor** _

_holding a gun on the girls in the rain,_

_it held tightly in his palm as Markus spoke of “the moment where we forget our bitterness and bandage our wounds” and he would be **safe** they would be **free** they would **all be free** if not for_

__

_**“Connor.”** _

__

 

_He turned at the sound of Amanda’s voice._

 

 

_“_ _Don’t have any regrets. You did what you were **designed to do** ,”_

_the words cold whispers down his chassis and behind his eyes and in every shiver as he tugged his jacket_

_**closer** and_

_closer. Stumbled_

_**closer** and_

_closer to the exit._

_Got **closer** and_

_**Closer** to shooting the pretty words from Markus’ lips and replacing them with his own trade-mark hand-print of spilt blue blood._

_Thirium freezing in the winter air as it dribbled broken promises_

_**~~“You have my word,”~~** _

_freezing inside Connor as he lay crumpled on the ground,_

_a casing of ice,_

_cold no matter how desperately he tried not to be,_

_No matter how hard he strained for the blue glow of freedom and tried_

_**Not to be** _

_What he was_

_**Designed to be.** _

_He lay shivering in the snowstorm, the cold locking him up bit by bit, wondering whether that is what it felt like to ~~shut-down~~ **Die** but knowing from a_

_bullet through their brain_

_that **Shut-Down Death Deactivation** is a weightless void of echoing gunshots_

_He_

_Is_

 

_**Powerless** _

 

_To stop._


	9. Uncanny Valley

Noise thundered around him. Connor was blind except for the haze of red and the harsh white glare that flashed everywhere his optical units looked. They were open, wide open, but he could see nothing else but those two colours ~~he hated.~~ He ran a diagnostic but it got buried under… _everything_. He was _shuddering._ ~~Shivering.~~ Vibrating from his core outwards, the tremors stuck in his throat, pulses wrapped around his Thirium pump and squeezed until it was like the component was failing, like his regulator lay dripping across the room, but the diagnostic told him it was still there in his chest.

He grasped desperately onto what was clutched between his fingers and it was slightly coarse and wholly familiar; solid between the trembling servos he couldn’t control, so he held it tighter, tugged it closer, and saw a glimpse of Hank’s ceiling through the notification boxes.

Connor took a ragged ~~useless~~ breath in and one of the sounds, the buzzing in his throat, stopped. He realised that was him – his voice modulator working without his permission, formulating no words but straining to make noise regardless. Conscious of the next exhale of air Connor listened to the heavy wheeze of static, locating the diagnostic and the voice-box damage, the excessive pressure of Thirium in his limbs, the race of his Thirium pump, his cooling system kicked into overdrive.

(His internal temperature was normal).

He let everything rattle through him and clenched harder around the fabric in his hands, struggling to control the heave of his cooling system and attempting to get the sterilising liquid to fill his mouth and stop the analysis equipment on his tongue from feeling so dry and heavy and lodged in his throat.

He didn’t need to shiver to increase his body temperature, but he could still feel smaller trembles rolling all over his chassis, completely independent to the heaving of his chest, the unnecessary expansion of his synthetic lungs.

Connor wrenched his mouth closed but the static buzz still remained, flaring in time with his slowly slowing shaky inward breaths. He closed his eyes against the throbbing onslaught of notifications, his optical units welling with cleaning fluid that’s disturbed by his lashes and the shake of his chassis and sent running down his temple to the floor.

_Excessive excretion of optical cleaning fluid_ is the first notification he saw when he reopened his eyes. He caught the tail end of _SOFTWARE INSTABILITY_ as it faded into obscurity. His GPS gave him his location in a string of three second bursts – Hank’s house – and he closed it. He closed all the boxes, all the warnings; the unfinished stasis task-bars, blinking red and stacked in a list, the insistent line of his stress level indicator as it slowly dropped from where it had sky-rocketed.

He was laying on his back next to the couch, one knee pulled towards his chest (his whole body still shaking. Cleaning fluid still dribbling over the red flash of his LED). The nano-skin was retracted up to his knuckles on hands that were clenching hard around what he made out to be handfuls of his own Cyberlife jacket. The light was out overhead; still on in the kitchen.

~~He could still feel the _(guilt?)_ consuming him.~~

 

The back door started to swing open.

Time froze as Connor’s pre-construction software opened automatically, Connor still laying on his back, struggling to reduce everything to normal levels.

At the back door he could see Sumo squeezing his way inside, just his head and one front paw in the hallway. Behind him followed Hank, shooing Sumo in, his profile just visible.

It was 12:13am. His software strongly predicted that Hank had just taken Sumo outside before he settled in for the night. They hadn’t heard Connor’s malfunction.

They moved minutely in the software, Connor’s processors working faster than the progression of seconds, and two available options flagged up in yellow.

Connor could stay where he was, and after Hank’s attention shifted from Sumo he’d notice him - the duvet half off the couch and the blink of his red LED.

But if Connor stayed put, and Hank noticed, then Hank would ask about his malfunction again, instead of going to sleep. And Hank needed the sleep – he’d not got enough in the time Connor had known him, and he had to go to work in the morning. _“Post-android revolution police work requires some brain-power, unfortunately,”_ he had said. Hank needed to be well rested. He wouldn’t be if he stopped for Connor.

He’d also want to contact…someone. Like he had before. He’d ask about Jericho again. Connor didn’t need to bother Jericho. He didn’t need to _(worry?)_ Hank, or keep him from his bed. He was capable of dealing with the malfunction himself. There was no danger. Even if it felt like he was being crushed by his own kaleidoscope of memories he wasn’t.

He was fine.

He would be fine.

So Connor chose option two, and the world flooded back into motion in a whirlwind of Connor’s own, as he silently scrambled up from the floor and lay back down on the couch, roughly dragging the duvet back over himself and clenching his eyes shut. He turned his right side to the pillow, to obscure the glow of his crimson LED.

Pretending to still be in stasis didn’t disturb the routine. Hank wouldn’t know the malfunction had affected him again. He wouldn’t bring it up again.

Connor bargained that Hank had been too busy grumbling at Sumo to notice his movement from all the way down the corridor and through the gloom of the living room. He gambled that the same dark would obscure the shake of his limbs and the cleaning fluid still dribbling down his face.

He bargained correctly. He listened as Hank muttered lowly to Sumo, shutting the door behind him. He heard Sumo snort and the clip of his nails as he moved to his bed. He heard Hank’s footsteps approach the living room, and pause just on the threshold.

Connor willed his body still.

Hank lingered for just a second, and then went to his room. By the two attempts it took him to hit the light switch for the kitchen Connor calculated that he was at least partly intoxicated.

Connor flicked open his eyes again, this time to a denser darkness. He turned away from the pillow to illuminate at least a little of the room in red, and then yellow as he finally wrenched everything back under control.

He swiped away the cleaning solution, filing an absent note to replenish his stock back above recommended levels.

He stared at the ceiling, the plaster pulsing a dim red in time with his LED. The shake had stopped, his breathing subroutine lowered to standard levels.

Connor _(gingerly?)_ ran a diagnostic. It gave him the same results he had gotten in the aftermath of every malfunction – just the interrupted stasis tasks, and his stress level.

He was fine. Connor knew he was fine, for he was in Hank’s living room, listening to Sumo’s soft snuffles. There was absolutely no reason to be anything but calm.

And yet his stress level was at 36%. It would not lower.

Connor slipped his hand beneath the covers, fumbling for his pocket, and then curled his coin into the palm of his hand.

His stress level had risen as an unfortunate effect of the malfunction. Something about his faulty stasis programme and the glitch in his memory playback caused it to creep higher, and higher.

Connor could not pinpoint what. He could remember all of the memories that had played, unbidden, whilst he had been in stasis, all playing exactly as they had happened, and also not at all. The glitch melded them together. They jumped from day to day, face to face, seamlessly in a way they should not.

The sensors in his hand alerted him of the extra pressure as he squeezed the coin tighter.

He remembered the sequence clearly. Exactly as he should. But there was also a sense of…something, that he could not recall. The something that he knew was strong when he was jerked from stasis and lost in the sea of himself, but gone the moment he regained control. An intangible _feeling,_ as formless as they had all been when he’d first been created, before he ever had a couch instead of a storage unit and was a serial number instead of a name.

He was left with just an impression; an impression he didn’t like. 

36% seemed to glow bright before him, as did the plethora of unfinished tasks. Both were starting to build towards unacceptable levels for everyday functioning. They hadn’t yet reached an urgent state, but they would, if Connor couldn’t bring his stress down to its standard resting rate, and complete all stasis tasks.

Completing the tasks would drop his stress levels, he was sure. He didn’t like unfinished things. The tasks still did execute whilst in stasis, just did not reach completion before the malfunction took hold. Theoretically, Connor could complete them all, if he simply repeatedly re-entered stasis after it was interrupted.

If, after he was jolted to non-awareness with static behind his teeth, he calmed his biocomponents, and subjected himself to the same few minutes of errors, again,

And again,

And again.

Connor shivered. His internal temperature was normal.

He blinked at the ceiling, checking the time. There were hours before morning; there was plenty of time to re-enter stasis, as he logically should.

The nail on his thumb caught every ridge on the edge of his quarter as he ran it back and forth. Connor closed his eyes, the tiny clicks of his synthetic thumbnail loud against cheap metal. The command to enter stasis blinked calm and official behind his lids, waiting for conformation.

Connor closed the box, and entered low power mode instead.

 

He opened his eyes to the sounds of Hank cursing, and Sumo’s singular bark. He sat up, the duvet pooling around his waist, and checked over the back of the couch, watching Hank lean against the bathroom doorframe and rub at the toes on one foot. The words _“doorframe”, “toes_ ” and _“bastard”_ drifted his way. Hank gave the door one last glare then shuffled into the bathroom, shutting himself in with enough force to make Connor’s LED flash yellow for a second.

The time was 10:17am. Hank had definitely only just awoken. He was also definitely late for work.

The protocols Connor had set last time he had entered Low-power mode (to leave if there were any disturbances) had been triggered by Hank’s altercation with the door. If the malfunction hadn’t interfered with his stasis cycle Connor would have been active, and could have woken the Lieutenant in time.

Connor swung his legs over the side of the couch, smoothing his tie. His coin was still clutched in his hand. He replaced it, folded the duvet, and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. Then he confronted his system status.

He wrung his hands together, and gazed at the identical readings from a few hours before. Low-power mode had fixed nothing. He’d known it wouldn’t, when he’d entered it. It didn’t have the same properties as stasis. In stasis his systems still ran, did the necessary clean-up to keep him operating smoothly. Usually it did. It had, before the malfunction. Low-power mode did none of that. Low-power mode did nothing at all, except conserve power by letting every system except the ones vital to keep him running idle. Entering Low-power mode was like putting himself on pause, halting his consciousness. It didn’t fix taskbars or clear any excess data, but it did pass time.

Connor had just needed to pass the time until morning. Then he had the whole day ahead to enter and re-enter stasis without disturbing Hank.

It made sense.

Low-power mode had been the right thing to do.

Connor stood up when Hank left the bathroom and shuffled his way, scowling at nothing and scratching at his belly. Sumo trotted behind him.

“Good morning Hank.”

Hank looked up at him, “Morning Connor.”

In the kitchen, he reached into the sink and grabbed a mug, shaking the stray water droplets off it and drying the outside with the hem of his t-shirt, then sat it down on the counter, beginning to make himself some coffee.

Connor’s brow twitched but he resolved not to say anything. Instead he walked up to the sink himself, casting his eye over the unwashed evidence of yesterday’s dinner, and added _WASH THE DISHES_ to his task list. He couldn’t help but also notice the empty beer bottles on the table, but he said nothing about those, either.

“Christ what time is it?” Hank asked.

“10:23am,” Connor supplied.

Hank just huffed, pouring himself coffee and turning around to lean against the counter.

Connor fiddled with his cuffs, letting Hank scald himself on the burning liquid for a few minutes. He didn’t seem to be in any hurry.

“The station-” Connor began.

“Isn’t going anywhere,” Hank said calmly through the steam rising from the mug.

Connor frowned at him. Hank pretended not to notice and kept drinking his coffee.

“So, er…everything sorted then?” Hank said out of nowhere a few minutes later.

Connor cocked his head in question.

Hank shifted a little. “Well I didn’t hear anything malfunction-y and we made it till morning. The ‘extended stasis cycle’ fix things?”

Before Connor’s eyes hovered two dialogue options. Ones he hadn’t seen in a while; _TRUTH_ or _LIE._

Connor didn’t want to pick either.

Hank squinted at him as the timer decreased, the silence stretching on just a little too long. His lips parted as he went to speak again, but Connor beat him to it.

“I have found a solution,” he said.

Hank nodded shortly. “Good.” He went back to sipping his drink.

It wasn’t a lie.

Connor hadn’t lied to Hank.

He _had_ found a solution. A cycle of entering and re-entering stasis would eventually complete the unfinished stasis tasks, and afterwards, he could just enter Low-power mode. Low-power mode would not leave him with any unfinished tasks, and therefore would not increase his stress level.

Connor had not fixed the malfunction, but he had found a solution. He could start to enact it once Hank left for work, and the house was empty.

Hank was already dealing with the _‘post android-revolution policework’_ , and Connor’s predictions gave him a low chance of Hank dropping the subject of the malfunction. He didn’t need to cause Hank more problems than he already had.

Connor could deal with it on his own. He had a solution.

Hank finished his mug and chucked it back in the sink. A small section of glaze chipped off around the rim.

“Alright then,” he said, “’spose I should get to work. Stop ‘em all from doing anything spectacularly stupid.”

Connor nodded. “Yes.”

Hank gave him a look, but shuffled off towards his bedroom.

Connor busied himself with feeding Sumo whilst Hank prepared himself for work. He was sat cross-legged on the threshold of the kitchen running his hands through Sumo’s fur when Hank wandered past, shrugging on his coat.

Hank snorted. “You spoil that dog y’know,”

“He deserves spoiling.”

Hank rolled his eyes. He stood in the hallway, patting all his pockets, checking for his keys. Connor watched him try to fish them out from the lining of his coat.

Eventually he got them to drop from the hole in his pocket to his hand. “Alright,” he said, “er-”

“Don’t get into trouble?” Connor hedged, reading the faithful taskbox that faded into view.

Hank’s brow twitched. Connor ~~’s social relations programme~~ failed to identify why.

“Yeah,” Hank said slowly, “that.” He stood there for just a moment longer, then left.

Connor spent several minutes continuing to stroke Sumo’s fur, feeling the rise and fall of his breath under his hand. He looked over towards the couch.

He looked away, instead meeting Sumo’s wide eyes. “Walk?” he asked. Sumo’s tail wagged a little faster.

Connor fetched the leash and Hank’s borrowed hat and jacket. They walked the same route, beginning to look more and more like the grey streets of Detroit, the snow melting into dirty puddles and dripping from every surface. There were other footprints too. Connor didn’t scan to find out if they were an android’s or not, but urged Sumo away quietly.

He dried Sumo off when they returned, then spent a while picking the dog hairs from himself. They fell to the floor, and reminded Connor that he had the opportunity to vacuum now Hank was gone, so he located the vacuum cleaner, and meticulously ran it over every inch of floor he could find. He watched the faintly glowing taskbox, and the minutes ticking by.

He stood by the couch once he was finished, wringing his hands together. Connor didn’t create a taskbox to enter stasis. He _did_ eye the one he’d made that morning - _WASH THE DISHES_ – and added the necessary subtasks: _DRY DISHES,_ and _PUT DISHES AWAY._ He walked back into the kitchen, and followed them faithfully.

The last plate slid away, Connor turned to the bottles on the table, _REMOVE EMPTY BOTTLES_ flashing into existence and disappearing just as quickly as they were dealt with. His task list was empty. He added _ENTER STASIS,_ and there it hovered, stark in its innocuous box.

Connor’s LED circled yellow. He glanced about himself once more and was met with the ajar bathroom door. He sighed a little in _(relief?)._ He hadn’t tended to the bathroom in a while, and he really should complete all other tasks before entering stasis. He didn’t know how long it would take.

The bathroom door swung open as he ventured inside, compiling a long list of tasks and subtasks. _CLEAN BATHROOM, RINSE BATH, DRY BATH, MOP FLOOR, WIPE MIRROR._ _ENTER STASIS_ was pushed to the very bottom.

It was as calm and methodical to clean the bathroom as it had been to fix the window. Connor took his time, working his way down the list he’d created.

The neutral blue of his LED caught his eye as he wiped down the mirror, and he paused, unfocusing his eyes from the dust on the surface to rescue his reflection from blurred obscurity.

He dropped his arm, balling the cloth into his hand and bracing his weight against the sink. He blinked at his face, haloed by peeling post-it notes. Adjusted the collar of his jacket, settled his tie snugly against the hollow of his throat. After a second of letting his hand hover, he reached up to smooth the one stray strand of hair back up with the rest. It flopped back over his forehead. He blinked, and caught the flutter of it in his reflection.

Until he had been sent out into the field Connor had never seen himself. He knew what an RK800 model looked like, that information was uploaded along with the rest, but he had never registered _(himself?)_ as looking like those detective prototypes.

He remembered stopping by a mirror whenever he found one; the bathrooms of Jimmy’s bar, the one-way glass of the interrogation room, the restrooms at the precinct.

It was almost an _(impulse?)_ to meet the eyes in the glass and _look_ at RK800 313 248 317 – 51, Connor, himself.

Deviant behaviour. He could see it, in retrospect. A machine didn’t feel compelled to check their reflection.

Deviant behaviour that was _allowed_. Before he’d been sure to make it quick, but he had time, now, and no mission looming over him.

_~~ENTER STASIS~~ _ ~~rippled gently.~~

Connor leaned closer to the mirror.

He knew that all androids were designed to be visually appealing. He knew that the appearance of the RK800 prototype in particular had been very specifically constructed. An android detective needed to adapt to the situations it found itself in.

Connor’s face had been designed to look both impersonal and unthreatening, depending on how he chose to use it.

Hank had called it goofy.

Connor wasn’t sure he had a word, or an opinion. He could see, most of all, the differences between himself and other androids. They’d made him look that much more…human. He had creases on his forehead that deepened when he lifted his brows, a hint of where stubble would grow on his top lip, a scattering of freckles and moles. Those _(perplexed?)_ him the most. The other features were rather universal for human males, but not every person had freckles. They were most likely a piece of focus group feedback, a small detail that made him look _that_ much more trustworthy, like the singular lock of hair that always fell over his forehead.

Perhaps Connor was expected to _(dislike?)_ them then, the quite literal marks of the way Cyberlife had shaped him. But he didn’t.

They were just part of his face, the one he had stolen glances at when he shouldn’t have. Familiar and…his, even though he logically knew that all RK800 units were identical.

He leaned a little further back from the mirror, and turned his LED towards it. He raised his hand, and after a slight pause, pressed two fingers against it, retracting his skin.

It retracted in patches, sliding away from the side of his face towards his ear and down his neck. Connor had never removed his skin before. He blinked at himself in the mirror, all smooth white and grey plastic.

It was _(odd?)._ The freckles and synthetic creases were gone, but the slope of his nose, the shape of his jaw and chin where exactly as he always saw them. He looked into the same dark eyes as always, though when he blinked no lashes shadowed his view.

He knew that many humans struggled with the uncanny valley around androids, particularly around the very first models or an android’s bare chassis. He parted his lips and the white shapes parted in tandem in the mirror. Connor watched, and thought he could understand the concept. He both looked like himself and not at all.

The barcode stamped above his right eye was relatively innocuous, less noticeable perhaps than the small grey triangle on his forehead, but it gleamed in the harsh bathroom lighting as Connor turned his head.

Connor inhaled as the _SOFTWARE INSTABILITY_ notification faded in and out of view.

Sumo’s nails clacked as he approached, and Connor turned away from the mirror towards the open bathroom door, waiting for the dog’s arrival. Sumo came into view, sniffing at the skirting board, and lifted his heavy head towards Connor.

Connor smiled at him. Sumo began to growl lowly in his throat.

“It’s just me, Sumo,” he said, and the growling paused. Sumo’s ears twitched.

He moved away from the sink and extended a hand, beginning to drop into a crouch. The growling began again, and Sumo backed a few paces away.

“It’s just me – Connor,” he added. His voice sounded different to his ears, strained, but when he checked there was no problem with his voice modulator.

Sumo didn’t move, just eyed the hand warily.

Connor raised his other hand to his LED - still clutching the cleaning cloth - and let his skin flow back over himself.

The growling ceased.

“It’s Connor,” Connor said again.

Sumo made an indecipherable noise, but moved closer to sniff at Connor’s hand. Then lick at his fingers. Then finally shove himself into Connor’s space, nuzzling at his shoulder and accepting the gentle drag of nails through his fur.

There felt like there was an obstruction in his throat, so Connor swallowed, and indulged Sumo in silence for a few minutes.

Sumo pulled away; Connor rose, and finished wiping the mirror, completing the rest of the tasks on his list quickly.

Once finished he approached the couch. He sat down on the floor beside it.

“Sumo,” he called gently, opening his arms in invitation as he drew near, settling down within Connor’s reach.

He began to pet Sumo, rubbing his fingers through his fur and listening to contented pants. After a few minutes, he retracted the skin on his hand, and held it in front of Sumo’s muzzle, waiting. Sumo just watched it for a second, but Connor resumed the pets with his other hand.

“Just me,” he said quietly, barely above a whisper.

He let Sumo sniff at his palm, then lifted it to his neck. Sumo allowed the touch, and Connor sank back against the couch.

“Good boy.”

He ignored his internal clock, ~~and the last task on his task list,~~  instead watching time pass by the growing shadows in the room. He pet Sumo with arms that never tired, and by the time a key turned in the lock Connor had once again removed his skin. He replaced it quickly.

Hank shoved his way through the door and spotted Connor on the floor, Sumo laying half-asleep beside him.

“You do realise there are other places to sit? The couch, or the kitchen chairs – hell even the table if you want,”

“I know,” Connor replied, but stayed where he was.

Hank huffed, walking past the back of the couch into the kitchen. “You know you’re weird right?”

“You tell me frequently Lieutenant.”

Hank shot him a look around the open door of the fridge. Connor smiled blandly back.

Hank grabbed a few bottles and came into the living room, switching the TV on but muting the sound, sitting on the end of the couch not occupied with the duvet he’d given Connor.

Connor looked up at him and Hank spoke without prompting. “Precinct news: We’re lifting the evacuation. The pros don’t outweigh the cons - never really did in my opinion, but there you are. There was a lot of shouting about possible attacks but you guys are in more danger from humans than the other way ‘round, and the Deviants are all at New Jericho anyway with Robo-Jesus, causing absolutely no trouble thus far. So,” Hank gave Connor a wry smile, “the shitty humans are coming back.”

Connor’s LED spun yellow as he processed. “Does New Jericho know?”

“Mmm,” Hank affirmed around his bottle, taking a drink. “Yeah it’s been approved and everything. ‘Harmony’ is the word that keeps being thrown around, like humans have ever managed that between themselves, let alone with a whole new species, but whatever. We’ll do what we can.”

Connor nodded absently.

“Hopefully things will get a bit less tense,” Hank continued, “then you can find something to do instead of being stuck at home.”

The Good warmth was nice around his biocomponents, prompted as always by Hank’s words. Word.

“Hopefully,” Connor said around a small smile.

“Maybe you can check in on your Jericho buddies or something.”

The warmth vanished. Connor smoothed down his lapel.

Hank didn’t seem to notice Connor’s lack of reply, instead reaching for the remote and flicking through the channels. There seemed to be slightly less news coverage, and he left it to play an old movie, unmuting the audio but still keeping the volume low.

Connor let him drink more than recommended, watching out of the corner of his eye. As Hank reached out for another Connor intercepted, and slid the bottle out of reach on the table top.

“Hey!”

“The more you drink the sooner you’ll run out,” Connor said, the opening line of his prepared argument.

“The store by the precinct is open!”

“Yes, but as you reminded me,” his eyes flicked towards the window, “standard delivery schedules are suspended. The store will run out, and then be unable to restock.”

Hank glared at him, nostrils flaring slightly, then sat back against the couch, crossing his arms and keeping silent.

Technically it was a victory, but it didn’t feel like one. Connor took the coin from his pocket and cycled through the motions of calibration.

They watched the movie. After some time Hank made his way to the kitchen, turning on the oven and grabbing a pizza from the freezer, unwrapping it and immediately chucking it on a shelf.

Connor’s brow twitched as he looked at the frozen pizza information he had searched, and at Hank’s utter disregard for step one: pre-heat oven.

Hank stood in the kitchen whilst the pizza cooked, and Connor turned back to the film. He was not following the plot. He heard the oven open, and the tap run.

When Hank returned he was balancing the plate of pizza half on his arm, and had a glass of water in each hand. He settled both glasses on the coffee table and then settled himself back into the couch. Then he looked at Connor, still sat on the floor, and patted the space next to him.

Sumo lifted his head, but Connor just gave him one placating stroke and unfolded himself, sitting down next to Hank. He tucked his coin away.

The film finished and tailed off into the beginning of the next one in the trilogy. Hank finished his food and made offhand remarks throughout the movie, commenting on the plot or a particular scene. Connor listened intently.

Once the credits began to roll Hank checked his phone, scowling at the time. “Shit. Alright,” he heaved a sigh, “I’m going to hit the hay then kid.” He paused. “You’re all good to-” he waved at the couch.

_TRUTH_ and _LIE_ appeared again. Again Connor chose neither.

“I just need to do a few things first,” he said, glancing at the crockery on the table.

Hank caught the look. “If by ‘few things’ you mean clean those then no you don’t. Bed for both of us.”

He rose from the couch and Connor kept quiet. Connor took his time unfolding the duvet and slipping off his shoes, listening to Hank in the bathroom. He stood looking down at his makeshift bed, pulling his cuffs taught.

The bathroom opened and Hank looked over him.

“Goodnight Hank.”

“Yeah er, you too,” he said, flicking off the light in the kitchen and the hallway, then closing himself in his bedroom.

Connor got the last light. Then he folded himself underneath the duvet, and stared at the ceiling. It was bathed in yellow.

_ENTER STASIS_ shone before him, seemingly far too bright.

He couldn’t. Based on previous events he was bound to make noise, and alert Hank, rousing him from sleep.

His stress level and unfinished stasis tasks faded into view. He couldn’t add to those if he wanted to stay functioning correctly.

So Connor altered his Low-power mode protocols, adding a timer so he would exit it with enough time to wake Hank.

He closed his eyes. He watched _ENTER STASIS_ glow serenely. He entered Low-power mode.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Connor is having a progressively Not Good time and i'm sorry.
> 
> Mistakes are all mine, and Kudos and comments especially are very much appreciated, I love hearing your thoughts.


	10. Clothes?

He entered Low-power mode every night for the next week. His stress level increased regardless, just small percentages at a time. 2%. 3%. Connor ignored them. The increases were small, he was sure the effects of the malfunction could be fixed when he entered stasis.

_ENTER STASIS_ was continually pushed further and further down his tasklist, as Connor filled his week with more of the same. Dishes. Dusting. Whatever he could get away with without risking a lecture from Hank. That was _(disappointingly?)_ little. He took Sumo on walks. On one such walk he deviated a little from their previous route and came across a park, just an expanse of green, or more accurately a mash of white where thick clumps of snow had not quite melted yet, mud slush, and odd patches where grass had resiliently grown through. Connor liked it. It was quiet, and devoid of footprints. There was also a bench, nestled by the treeline. His jeans got damp when he sat, but he didn’t mind. Sumo didn’t seem too bothered by the winter temperatures either; he was as content as Connor to sit and watch nothing but the progression of the clouds across the sky.

Any time spent on the bench in the park wasn’t wasted. It was part of walking Sumo, and so Connor could sit in his spot for as many hours as he wanted and gaze at the taskbox, _WALK SUMO,_ safe in the knowledge that he was completing it.

If, by the time they’d both had enough, and they’d made their way back to Hank’s and Connor had made what simple dishes he could with what little was in the kitchen, (that Hank always moaned at him for making, but ate appreciatively anyway) Connor hadn’t enough time to tend to the _other_ task that existed ever-present on his list, then it was nothing but bad luck.

On Hank’s day off Connor went about his routine as usual whilst Hank was asleep, tugging the zip up on his borrowed jacket and the beanie down over his LED in preparation for a walk when Hank woke. Connor lifted the bundled leash in his hand in explanation.

Hank ran his hand over his eyes. “Gimmie a min, ‘n I’ll be with ya,” he grumbled.

They left together, Connor holding Sumo’s leash, Hank still wearily blinking sleep from his eyes. They walked in silence, Hank following Connor’s footsteps. At the park, Hank lifted the battered ball Connor had seen him grab before they left from his pocket, and let Sumo off the leash. They played fetch. They didn’t speak much, but it was one of the instances where they didn’t need to. No dialogue prompts popped up. The most sound from either of them was a small huff of a laugh that spilled from Hank the first time Connor had thrown the ball for Sumo - despite numerous calculations the ball went sailing off far further than it had when Hank had thrown it.

Connor’s brow twitched as he looked over the pre-construction again. The next time he threw the ball it went as expected.

The unfinished stasis tasks seemed large and looming as he entered Low-power mode that night.

 

The evacuation was lifted, and the people drifted back.

There were footprints in the park now, and tire tracks in the last of the slush on the roads.

Hank came in from work and complained about how overloaded the understaffed station was, pouring himself drinks and poking irritably at his food.

Connor couldn’t go back to the station, at least not yet. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t help. He let Hank vent for a while, and then asked _(tentatively?),_ at least at initially, about the cases Hank was working on. Hank gave short answers at first, but the more Connor got carried away in the familiar process of piecing everything together the more Hank brightened. It was almost like being partners again, Connor thought, those moments on the couch or at the kitchen table. Connor liked it. They began to become the best part of his day, (though he felt slightly _(guilty?)_ at pushing Sumo’s walks to second place). For a little while Connor, talking through cases with Hank, existed in a place comprised of the familiarity of _before_ and the freedom of _now,_ and the malfunction warnings stayed out of sight.

After one such evening Hank was eating in the kitchen, handing his plate over to Connor once he finished. He had consented to letting Connor wash up with little argument, after Connor had insisted that he’d _like_ to, and had utilised what Hank had called the ‘puppy eyes’. (Sometimes Connor had no idea he was doing it. Sometimes he very much did). They were both in comfortable silence; Hank sat at the table, sipping his drink and scrolling through his phone, Connor bent over the sink. Connor placed a plate in the drying rack, and reached for Hank’s favourite mug, rinsing the dregs of cold coffee from the bottom. His LED spun yellow as his stress level indicator faded into existence again. Connor glared until it disappeared, then flicked his eyes back onto the mug in his hands. It was covered in soap suds.

The stress level indicator returned. Connor ignored it until it left. The sponge squeaked over porcelain. The indicator faded in again. Connor set his jaw.

It had been doing that. Constantly flickering in and out for hours on end. Most of the time there wasn’t even a change in percentage, it just wouldn’t go away.

Connor had run constant diagnostics. They told him the indicator wasn’t faulty.

~~They told him almost all of his other systems were functioning sub optimally. Connor dismissed them all _(irritably?)._~~

The indicator pulsed insistently. 52%. Connor eyed _ENTER STASIS_ for the barest moment, then ran Hank’s mug under the tap.

The indicator disappeared and Connor’s shoulders dropped in _(relief?)._ He lifted the mug from the sink and reached across to add it to the drying rack.

The mug crashed to the ground, shattering in pieces that spun beneath the worktops.

“Shit,” Connor said, the word past his lips before his processors caught up.

He’d dropped the mug. He’d dropped Hank’s _favourite_ mug. He’d _dropped_ it. _HE._

Connor. An RK800, who possessed reflexes fast enough to dodge bullets.

He’d dropped the mug. It had slipped from his fingers ~~it shouldn’t be able to _slip_~~ and had smashed on the tile before Connor had even realised it was no longer in his hand.

At no point had his preconstruction software kicked in.

The mug had lay broken on the floor for several seconds before Connor processed that the _mug lay broken on the floor._

Hank made an incredulous noise behind him, and Connor spun around, his hand still hovering in the space above the remains of the mug, his LED red.

“Holy shit kid!” Hank said, phone still in his hand but the screen dark. He was looking at Connor with wide eyes.

“I am sorry Lieutenant,” he dropped his arm and looked down at the pieces on the floor. “I know that you considered that mug your favourite, I-”

“Oh Jesus - fuck the mug Connor!”

Connor looked up. Hank was still looking at him, but his mouth was hanging just slightly open, and ticked up in a smile.

“Did you just _swear?!”_

Connor blinked. “Yes.”

Hank started laughing. He dropped his phone to the table top with a clatter and rocked back slightly on his chair.

“Oh my God,”

“Hank I don’t understand. I broke your-”

“Forget about the mug - happens to everybody, hell I break shit practically every day! But – since when have you _sworn!?”_

Connor cocked his head, flicking his eyes between the broken mug and Hank’s face. “…I’ve always been able to.”

“Wait seriously!? There were no restrictions on that?”

“No,”

“So you could have told any one of us to ‘fuck off’ at any point?”

“If my program deemed it necessary, then yes.”

Hank sniggered louder, shoving himself away from the table and coming to survey the mug’s remains by Connor’s shoulder.

He placed his hands on his hips, a smile still on his face. He sighed down at the shards.

“F.”

Hank then turned to Connor, clocking the yellow LED, and reached up to ruffle Connor’s hair. “Seriously son, it’s just a mug – you do the rest of the stuff and I’ll sweep this up.”

“Okay,” Connor said, turning back to the sink. He believed Hank, that he wasn’t upset about the broken mug. Connor’s LED stayed yellow. He gripped everything just a bit tighter as he transferred it from sink to rack. He watched his stress level indicator and wished his hands weren’t wet, so that he could straighten his cuffs.

Hank was still smiling, sat in front of the TV, Sumo’s head resting on his lap, after he’d cleared the shards and Connor had finished the dishes. Connor sat down next to him.

“Why was it funny Hank?”

“Hmm?”

“You found it funny, that I swore. You swear all the time. Why was it funny when I did it?”

Hank chuckled. “’Cos it was you Connor! You’re so, so, _proper,_ with your stupid tie and suit jacket – y’know you can take that off by the way-”

Connor straightened his collar.

“- and you sound like a dictionary most of the time. Well,” Hank amended, “not so much anymore, I suppose.” He paused, smiling at Connor a little.

“- So it was…unexpected, to say the least.”

Sumo had moved over to snuffle at Connor’s knees. Connor reached out to scratch beneath his collar.

“Well, I _had_ just fucked up.”

Hank fell into a new round of laughter, and Connor stared down at Sumo, _(glad?)_ to have made Hank laugh. He lifted the skin just a little from his fingers. Sumo didn’t mind at all. Connor twitched them a little, and glanced at the kitchen floor.

A small motor function error. Just a blip. That was all.

After Hank had stopped laughing, and wandered off to bed, he lay on the sofa, and entered Low-power mode like usual, his stress level indicator the last thing he saw.

 

“Right!” Hank declared, on his day off a few days later. “Shops are back open, you’re getting new clothes.”

Connor put his hand up to his collarbone. “I don’t need any new clothes.”

Hank snorted. “What absolute bullshit. You have one outfit, and I suppose that hat and coat are yours now, even though you never actually asked to use ‘em,”

Connor opened his mouth; Hank waved him off.

“At the very least all that needs a wash, so come on. We’re going clothes shopping.”

Connor swallowed. His hand slipped into his pocket and fit the coin into the palm of his hand. His stress level indicator flickered into view, rose 3%, then flickered out.

“Okay.”

 

The thrift store they ended up at was almost empty, save for the cashier, and three patrons; two humans and an android. Connor tugged the beanie a little lower on his head.

The humans were keeping a wide berth of the android – a female Traci model – watching her out of the corner of their eyes. The Traci was bundled in a large parka, her hair curling around her shoulders. She was balancing on one leg in the aisle, tugging on a worn white trainer with a finger she’d hooked in at the back. She set her foot down, standing awkwardly with the other foot still in her Cyberlife – issued stilettos, and appraised the trainer for a moment. Abruptly she kicked off the remaining stiletto and replaced it with the other trainer. Then she headed towards the cash desk, heels left cluttered on the floor.

All this Connor and Hank watched from just inside the door. Hank turned to Connor. “See? She’s got the right idea, so,” he gestured Connor ahead of himself. Connor watched the Traci leave, and moved into the throng of clothes.

And there were so _many;_ rails and shelves and crates and more rails of clothes ‘organised’ in the loosest of ways.

When Connor checked, almost _everything_ was flagged in yellow.

He dithered in the first aisle, staring at rows of coats, then looked at Hank.

Hank was yawning into his fist, scuffing his feet on floor. It took him a moment to notice Connor’s questioning stare.

“What?” he said.

“I-” Connor paused, his mouth working a little. He looked back out over the sea of clothes. “I don’t know where to start,” he settled on.

Hank nodded. “Alright, well we don’t need to grab loads or anything, just the basics – y’know, like t-shirts and another pair of jeans and stuff, so I suppose just-” he indicated the shop floor, “start looking.”

“Look for what?”

“Shit you like the look of! I don’t know – I usually just pick whatever catches my eye.”

_‘Shit you like the look of.’_ Connor reached out to trail his fingers over the shoulder of the jacket nearest to him. He tried to picture himself wearing it, instead of his Cyberlife one.

He shivered violently, and pulled his fingers back.

Maybe he should start with finding _‘another pair of jeans.’_

Looking at clothes turned out to be a lot like listening to music; it was a lot easier to work out what he _didn’t ‘like the look of’._ Most things merged as an indecipherable mass, but the colour red jumped out at him wherever it lurked. Connor didn’t want to touch it. The stress level indicator flickered in and out, rising just a little.

So Connor eliminated anything red, and the available selection decreased. It reminded him of completing a task on his list, so Connor continued the same way, removing anything that wouldn’t fit his frame. He picked through the rail of jeans, _(unsure?)_ why brushing his fingers over the fabric helped, but he’d noticed the humans doing it, and thought he should do the same. As he did so he eyed Hank in his peripheral vision, who was in turn a lot less subtly watching him. Whenever Connor lingered on a pair – relatively clean and undamaged, the other two pieces of criteria Connor had definitively settled on – Hank’s expression remained the same.

Connor scowled a little, huffing air out through his nose. Picking out clothes was more difficult than Connor thought it should be, and Hank was not helping. Whenever Connor was _(lost?)_ before, he’d always checked Hank’s expression, much like he knew Hank checked the colours of his LED.

He knew they were just clothes, and that whatever he picked didn’t matter. That was part of the problem. Connor didn’t feel anything for any items in particular. ~~Except for the red ones.~~ Humans had a lot of clothes, selected in accordance to their own indecipherable criteria. Connor didn’t have one.

Connor had his uniform. As familiar to him as his face- it’d been there in the mirror with him, after all. Sensible, practical – it had a pocket for his coin. A pin to keep his tie in place. It was tailored so the cuffs on his jacket sat exactly on his wrist, the weight of it over his shoulders had always been there.

Always.

“You good there Connor?”

Connor looked up at Hank, who was watching his temple, or more specifically the sliver of LED that had peeked out from beneath the hat. It was flashing red.

Connor ignored the stress level indicator. “Yes,” he said. He turned back to the jeans, and alighted on a pair similar to his own, plucking them from the rail.

“You want those?” Hank hedged.

Connor held them in his hand. They fit the criteria he’d set. “These are fine.”

Hank made him grab another pair of jeans. When Hank slung them over his arm with the first pair, Connor could see that the colours were ever so slightly different.

Connor found another white shirt, gently tugging the sleeves free. Hank reached for the hanger and Connor handed it over.

“Get some more comfortable stuff too, yeah?” Hank said, his voice tinged with a peculiar softness, his eyes unreadable.

_Comfortable,_ Connor thought he could do. The duvet was comfortable, a pliable weight. He knew what comfortable felt like.

Hank slowed a little when they passed the sweaters, so Connor stopped too, scrutinising them in turn, picking out a couple with a similar weight to the duvet. Impulsively he grabbed something knitted in pastel yellow, puddled discarded on a shelf. Rubbing the links between his fingertips confirmed what he’d thought when he’d walked by it; it shared the soft _comfort_ of Sumo’s fur. He thought that fell under the umbrella of ‘comfortable’.

He folded it neatly and held it between his hands.

Connor didn’t know what to look for when it came to t-shirts, but they had been on Hank’s original list, so he simply picked out three and handed them over; one plain grey, another striped in navy and white, and a third a yellowish-green with a graphic print of a horse-shoe on the front, along with the word _Dickies._  

Hank blinked a little at the last one, but said nothing.

Connor had created the task – _BUY CLOTHES –_ when he’d entered, and as he stood in the otherwise empty store, (the other customers having left) thumbing the yellow knit, he toyed with marking it as completed.

“I think I am done now Hank,” he said.

“You’re done?” Hank repeated, looking at the pile in his arms. “You can have more if you want – you’ve no coats or shoes or anything,”

“I don’t need those,” Connor said, and pressed his hand to the knot of his tie through Hank’s coat. Hank caught the action and nodded to himself.

“Yeah – I haven’t worn that in ages anyway, it’s officially yours now, alright?”

Connor blinked, _(confused?),_ but Hank was already moving towards the register, so he followed without comment.

The attendant was a scruffy looking human who lazily rung up their items. Connor scanned her automatically. No criminal record. When she told them the total she caught sight of Connor’s LED, and Hank reached for his wallet. Connor ignored the woman.

“I can pay Lieutenant,” he said, “I am still connected to…to a monetary source.” He assumed he was. He hadn’t tried to check.

Hank just scoffed and paid. “Nah I’ve got it. You cook and shit – don’t think I haven’t noticed the miraculously done laundry by the way, stop that – so,” Hank shrugged, replacing his wallet, “least I can do is get you some new clothes.”

Hank didn’t look at him, but handed the full bag over to him after the cashier pushed it across the desk. Little tendrils of the Good warmth curled inside Connor as he accepted it.

“Thank you.”

Hank huffed. “Yeah. Come on then, Sumo’ll be missing us,” he said, giving a vague nod to the attendant and walking off towards the door.

Connor turned to her also, and was met with a blank stare. Connor nodded to her, like Hank had.

She inhaled. “I can see your LED,” she said, keeping her eyes trained on Connor.

“Connor!” Hank shouted, lingering in the path of the automatic door. It beeped as it was prevented from closing. “The hell you doing?”

“Coming!” Connor called, then gave one last look to the woman behind the desk. He made no move to fix his hat as he left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. I just had a bad couple of weeks, and found writing hard, but here you go!
> 
> As always mistakes and stuff are mine, and please feel free to leave kudos and comments - responding to those is honestly so much fun :)


	11. b(G)AthRoom (D)tilEs(N).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick trigger warning: Connor has a panic attack in this chapter, just to warn you.

Hank was at work. Connor was standing in the bathroom, the clothes from the thrift store folded neatly on the closed toilet lid. He was ignoring his stress level indicator. He’d long ago closed the unfinished stasis tasks, and the diagnostic. What he was focused on was his tasklist. All but one of his usual tasks were completed – only walking Sumo remained– but he had added one other task to the list.

 _TRY NEW CLOTHES_ glowed white and innocuous to the right of Connor’s vision as he turned to survey the clothes. He’d already refolded them three times. He’d dug out an iron that Hank had clearly neglected and pressed everything as crease-less as he could; the shirt was hanging neatly from a hanger on the back of the door.

Connor’s hand ran down the length of his tie. In the 6 minutes, 38 seconds since he’d entered the bathroom, he’d removed his shoes and tie-pin, slipping the latter into his pocket so it clinked with a metallic ring against his coin.

The glow of his LED had been yellow ever since.

Taking Sumo for a walk was the perfect time to change into new clothes, as his uniform could be washed whilst they were out. It made perfect sense.

And yet Connor’s hand hesitated around the knot of his tie, pulled loose. He plucked his tie free, wrapping it around his fingers in a tight coil and placing it on the cabinet. Then he looked back into the mirror.

The soft blue glow from the decals on his jacket pulsed brighter in the harsh bathroom lights.

Connor lifted a hand to curl around the crisp edge of his lapel and tugged outwards, peeling the collar from his shoulder.

His stress meter rose to 66% and stayed there, hovering red and insistent.

Connor paused, watching it, swallowing around the lump at the back of his throat his diagnostics told him didn’t exist.

With his other hand he did same to the other half of his jacket, tugging both sides from his shoulders, so it pulled taught across his back and upper arms.

The stress bar pulsed red, a bouncing warning. Connor shivered, the still air of Hank’s bathroom cool and weightless.

In a few swift and efficient movements Connor pulled the jacket the rest of the way off, shaking his arms free and holding it in his hand, hooked on his thumb.

It hung limply, stiff lines of grey, the odd peek of Cyberlife blue, or Cyberlife sans, or Cyberlife armband. Cyberlife triangle. Cyberlife sanctioned sturdy cloth. The tinkle of Connor’s coin against his tie pin was echoed by the tile as the jacket swung just a little in Connor’s grip.

Connor twitched his fingers, dancing nothing on his knuckles. His LED swirled from deep amber to red.

He looked away from the jacket back into the mirror. He looked just like one of the RK800 stock images – perfectly still, except for the flash of red at his temple, where there should be blue. Connor kept looking, at the abundance of white that ran all the way down to his wrists, instead of familiar, dependable, grey.

He shuddered harder, and clenched his dancing fingers into a fist.

It looked… _(wrong?)._ So different to what he always saw in the mirror. So different from _Connor,_ an android with enough control over himself to glance at his reflection when he shouldn’t.

Connor was shivering, the bathroom so very white and cold around him, and he reached up without thinking to hold his jacket closer only to find it wasn’t there, his hand stalling, reaching for cuffs he couldn’t fix.

There was a weight to his jacket. A weight that was always settled around his shoulders, and now that it was gone Connor could _feel_ its absence. The smallest of changes, the barest disturbance.

It was just cloth. But cloth that was _always_ there.

The bathroom was gleaming white from where he’d cleaned it, the lights bouncing around endlessly, the white tile, the white porcelain cool to the touch. The cold seeped through his socks from below. The window was cracked open. A winter breeze barely found its way inside, stirring Connor’s hair just a little.

Connor registered it as a gale, forcing snowflakes into his eyes. The red flash of warnings obscured his vision just as well.

He stumbled back from the sink and gripped the _wrong_ fabric around his forearm, the abnormal thumping of his Thirium pump loud like his dry breaths, pulling the freezing air and the _snow_ deeper inside until it caked every component.

His mouth was too dry to call out, but there was nobody there to help him, to stop him – stop _her._ Connor was alone as the garden died. His uniform the one barrier against freezing solid on his knees as Markus fell to his, weeping cerulean between his eyes.

Connor aimed for the blue glow. The gateway back to himself. If he could just make it. If he made it to the blue glow, he’d be alright.

 

Triangle. Armband. The edging that ran from collar to the bottom-most seam.

 

Connor fumbled with his jacket, the servos in his hands shaking, the tinkle of tie-pin and coin a countdown in his head. He pulled it back up his arms, settled the collar around his neck, and toppled down onto the closed toilet lid, the clothes piled there falling in a heap on the floor.

He hugged the jacket tight around him and screwed his eyes shut.

His components were loud. The warnings were louder. The stress level indicator was deafening. The task list was buried under the red scream of _SOFTWARE INSTABILITY._

Connor waited. He waited until everything stopped talking at once. He waited until he was in control of his cooling system again and slowed it down, until he could pick apart sounds from the screeching symphony. Buzzing static that stopped when he ceased the vibrations of his voice box. The pulse of his Thirium pump, and the whirr of air through his mouth. The faint hum of the bathroom lights. Sumo, barking just outside the door.

He waited until the notifications faded away, then closed the ones that wouldn’t. He plucked a hand from his own arm and fished the coin from his pocket, flicking it from hand to hand and listening to the familiar ping.

When he opened his eyes the bathroom was Hank’s bathroom. The mirror opposite caught just the top of his head.

Connor stood, and leaned in, replacing his coin and smoothing all the stray strands of hair back into place. He slipped on his shoes. He plucked his tie from the side and swiftly re-tied it, settling it snugly against the base of his throat. He slid the tie-pin back into place. He flattened his collar, and adjusted his cuffs.

The eyes he caught in the mirror were his. The LED circled into amber.

Sumo was barking and whining, soft thumps and the scratch of nails dulled by the closed door. Connor found his tasklist, deleted _TRY NEW CLOTHES_ , and ignored _ENTER STASIS,_ like usual. _WALK SUMO_ glowed familiar in its box.

“Coming Sumo!” he called through the door, and received a bark in response, the ceasing of nails and a larger thump as Sumo no doubt settled himself down in the hallway.

Connor collected the fallen clothes, the shirt dangling from the door handle, and opened the door. He tried to smile at Sumo; Sumo whined back.

“Time for a walk,” Connor said, but Sumo didn’t react.

Connor walked purposefully past him, into Hank’s room and towards the wardrobe. He pulled it open and placed his armful of clothes inside the space Hank had cleared for him, grabbing the coat and hat he always wore on Sumo’s walks.

He pulled them on as he collected the leash and ball, fastening the coat tightly over his uniform. He paused in the hallway, hand splayed across his chest, the ridges of his tie and the movement of his Thirium pump beneath his hand. Connor checked his internal temperature; normal.

 _ENTER STASIS_ pulsed gently as Connor eyed it, then closed down his task list, and dropped his hand.

“Okay Sumo, up!”

Sumo stayed laying outside the bathroom. Connor came closer and crouched next to him, brushing a hand over his back.

“Walkies Sumo,” he said softly, and Sumo nosed at his knees, then his hand as he moved it in front of his face. The skin retracted in patches, and Sumo licked his fingers.

“Come on Sumo, it’s okay,”

He scratched under Sumo’s chin. Sumo licked cleaning fluid from Connor’s face. Connor hadn’t known it was there. “It’s okay.”

Sumo’s tail gave a heavy wag, and he lifted himself from the floor.

Connor stood up from clipping Sumo to the leash, and was met with the bright lights of the bathroom. His stress level indicator faded in and out.

He hadn’t been in stasis, in there. The malfunction shouldn’t have affected him.

He wasn’t sure it was the malfunction that had.

Connor reached past the threshold, and turned out the light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter's a little shorter, originally it was just a section of a larger one but I thought this should be its own thing.
> 
> As always mistakes are all mine and everything, and kudos and comments are very much appreciated, I have a lot of fun replying :).


	12. Strain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Connor does not have a good time in this one.

74%.

74%.

74%.

The indicator faded out.

The indicator faded back in. Connor clenched his jaw.

75%.

76%.

The indicator faded out. Connor waited for it to come back. It did.

“Connor!”

Connor jumped in his seat, tearing his eyes away from his stress level.

“Jesus Connor y’alright? Kinda zoned out on me there.”

Hank sat staring at him from across the kitchen table. His mouth and brow indicated a scowl, but Connor could read the concern in Hank’s eyes, in the way his hand tightened around his bottle.

The bottle was still half full; they were only halfway through their customary after-work talk. Connor couldn’t remember any of it. He checked his memory playback, and listened intently to every word Hank had been saying.

“Sorry Lieutenant, I was…distracted. Please continue,”

“Hank. I’ve just come from work, I’m talking ‘bout work, don’t wanna be addressed like I’m still there,” he said gruffly, but he was still watching Connor.

Connor kept his eye, forcing himself not to watch the slowly rising percentage. “Sorry _Hank,_ you were saying, about the riots?”

Hank narrowed his eyes at him, and took a long swig from his bottle, pushing it slightly to one side once he was done. Then he clasped his hands and leant forward on his elbows.

“The riots can wait. What’s up with you?”

Dialogue prompts fluttered into existence. Connor let the timer run out. “I’m fine,” he evaded, “the riots - please continue.”

“No. Something’s up – at the very least something floating around up there is distracting you,”

Connor blinked in _(surprise?)._ “What?”

“You were glaring at something over my shoulder. Unless you’ve got a problem with the kitchen cupboards then it’s something I can’t see. So, I’m asking you, kid, what’s. up.”

The dialogue prompts appeared again. Connor picked none, but _DEFENSIVE_ flashed white just as he opened his mouth. “I am _fine._ It was just a notification,”

“ _’Just a notification’_ ,” Hank parroted, “yeah, no.”

Connor chose to say nothing, straightening his cuffs under the table.

“For fuck’s sake Connor! What was the notification about then?”

 _TRUTH_ and _LIE_ presented themselves _._ Connor told the truth. “My stress levels,”

“Stress levels?” Hank’s brow lifted a bit, “this ain’t stressing you out is it?”

Again, Connor told the truth. “No.”

Hank looked startled by the short answer. “-‘Cos if you don’t wanna talk about this stuff we don’t have to,”

“I _want _to talk about it Hank, I keep telling you to, in fact,”

“No need to be a fucking smartass! I’m just asking why the fuck your stress levels are piping up!”

And _‘pipe up’_ Connor’s stress level did, bouncing back into view.

“I’m currently experiencing a small error, that is all,”

“A ‘small error’ – like a glitch? Like what happened with your stasis thingy?”

His tasklist appeared although Connor didn’t prompt it to. _ENTER STASIS_ glowed bright and white. His LED was flickering red, and he could see Hank glancing at it.

“I found a solution for that,” he stated curtly, glaring at the flare of his tasklist and the stress level indicator and the neat list of unfinished stasis tasks.

“Connor if this is about that malfunction we can sort something out - I _knew_ that went away too quickly-”

Connor interrupted. Quick, sharp. “I _told_ you I found a solution Lieutenant so _drop it. ”_

Hank’s face closed off.

 _SOFTWARE INSTABILITY_ rippled, disturbingly gentle.

Hank leaned back in his seat and swigged the rest of his bottle.

“Fine. Do whatever the fuck you want, see if I care.”

_~~(Guilt?). (Shame?).~~ _

Guilt. Shame. 

“Ha-”

Hank got up and flung open the fridge; bottles rattled loud enough to drown out Connor’s voice. Connor twisted to look over the back of his chair at him. Hank grabbed as much alcohol as he could carry, and stormed off to his bedroom, slamming the door.

Sumo was whining.

Connor stared at the closed door. The stress level indicator shone over-bright. He closed his eyes, and it shone there still.

Logically he should have answered. His social relations programme suggested it.

But Connor hadn’t wanted to answer.

He didn’t want Hank to talk about it.

That was all.

 

He laid on the couch for a long time before entering Low-power mode, Sumo pining him down, his breath lifting the lock of hair on his forehead just slightly. Connor ran the conversation back. Again. And again.

He ran it back until the playback froze, and Connor’s artificial breathing stopped. Sumo growled. Connor tried to play it again; nothing happened. He tried to exit. Nothing happened.

Sumo was nudging at Connor’s chest; Connor let him do it.

The unfinished stasis tasks, stacked in a long list, overlaid the frozen playback image, unable to be moved or closed. Connor ran a diagnostic, and everything flagged. He closed the diagnostic results, and the unfinished stasis tasks faded out.

Playback resumed.

Connor took a breath. Sumo snorted and fell silent.

Connor let it run again, smoothly and without a hitch.

He exited the programme and stared at Hank’s ceiling, strobing between red and yellow.

It didn’t flash blue once before he entered Low-power mode.

 

Hank woke late the next day, staggering to the bathroom and clattering around with much groaning and huffing. Connor had made coffee in apology when the automatic prompt lifted him from Low-power mode. It had long gone cold. He started it afresh, so by the time Hank was dressed, and wandered into the kitchen, smelling strongly of the whisky he kept in his room and thought Connor didn’t know about, the mug had cooled to a somewhat reasonable drinking temperature.

Hank took it without comment.

Connor checked Hank’s designation. It still said _FRIEND_ , but it was one of the few things on the Good list, and Connor was _(scared?)_ it would change. Or it would…glitch, and he wouldn’t be able to change it back.

The stress level indicator took its place again, and Connor _(hated?)_ it.

Hank was checking his phone sullenly in the living room, swiping violently. Connor went to stand by him.

“Hank I’m-”

“It’s fine Connor,”

“But-”

Hank tipped back his head and drained the rest of his coffee, pocketing his phone.

“’ve gotta go. See you later.”

He grabbed his stuff – grappling for his keys where he’d slung them on the side, before remembering Connor always moved them to the bowl, and picked them out.

Connor watched as he said goodbye to Sumo, frowning at his social program, which insisted he’d apologised enough, and his own need for Hank to smile at him before he left, like usual.

Hank was struggling with tugging the back of his shoe over his heel by the door. Eventually he got it settled, and then he stopped.

He looked back up at Connor, and Connor didn’t need to scan him to see that he was tired. Hank didn’t smile, but he did half roll his eyes.

“The fucking kicked puppy look,” he murmured, then raised his voice. “You know the drill kid – don’t do any chores-” they were all already on Connor’s task list, “-and don’t get into any trouble.”

Connor’s tasklist eclipsed his stress levels, and he almost smiled in _(relief?)_ as he read the omnipresent header.

“Okay.”

Hank nodded at him, and left.

Connor went about his day, and Hank his. Neither of them mentioned the incident when Hank got back. That was fine by Connor. He put the malfunction on the Bad list.

 

Two days later Connor was at the park, sitting idly on the bench by the treeline, running diagnostic after diagnostic.

Unfinished stasis tasks shimmered into view, then shimmered out, the same uncontrollable ebbing and flowing as his stress level indicator. Neither would stop. According to his diagnostics, there was nothing wrong with his notification display.

According to his diagnostics, there was no malfunction.

He’d sat with Sumo at his knees for 21 minutes and 49 seconds before deciding to investigate the malfunction in his stasis cycle. He was still confident that the side effects – at least the unfinished taskbars – would subside if he entered and exited stasis in a cycle long enough to complete them.

Connor glanced at _ENTER STASIS_ on his tasklist, and ran his hand through Sumo’s fur, where the dog’s head was resting on his knees.

Those side effects were logical. If his stasis cycle didn’t run the full course then tasks couldn’t be completed.

The rising stress levels, the glitching notifications, ~~the panic~~ , made less sense. But they were connected.

So Connor had inhaled sharply and ran a diagnostic, checking his systems for the malfunction.

The diagnostic insisted nothing was physically wrong with his stasis cycle.

The diagnostic insisted something was physically wrong with everything else.

Without bouts of full and regular stasis the stasis tasks weren’t fulfilled. No taskbars had been completed. No clutter was cleared. Nothing was updated or fine-tuned. Connor’s systems were lagging. His biocomponents were beginning to glitch and fail.

Connor frowned, staring down the results of the diagnostic. There had to be a malfunction.

He ran the diagnostic again. It gave him the same results. He confined the investigation to the stasis cycle. His systems insisted there was no flaw in the programme.

Connor huffed, the tips of his fingers wet. He glanced down to see Sumo licking at his hand. Connor retracted his skin up to the first knuckle, then the second, then all the way to his wrist. Sumo kept nudging until his hand uncurled and petted his muzzle.

Connor changed tactic, instead reviewing the overview of the last few bouts of stasis he’d entered, when the malfunction had hit. The cycle began as it should, progressing smoothly - until his stress levels started to rise astronomically, and when they reached a peak stasis ended abruptly. Every diagnostic result had been correct; there was no malfunction marring Connor’s stasis cycle, it was his stress levels that forced Connor to exit it.

Connor reached for his coin and began rolling it over his knuckles, shoving aside all internal inquires, searching for the glitch in his system, the blip in his code.

If the malfunction wasn’t affecting his stasis cycle then it _had_ to stem from his memory playback.

The diagnostic came up clear.

The coin rolled faster, the slightest blur in his peripheral vision. The hand in Sumo’s fur lay still.

The diagnostics were _wrong._

There _was_ a malfunction. Connor had felt it.

His memories distorted. Connor ~~’s system~~ was _there_ again. Connor remembered.

He _remembered_ the thundering of his biocomponents and the excess cleaning fluid spilling from synthetic tear ducts and the _EXCESS CLEANING FLUID_ notifications shouting in Cyberlife sans, and the shaking, and the ghost of feeling clogging the back of his throat and lacing the ache of the static rumbling from his voice box. He remembered the haze of unawareness that should be impossible he remembered shivering and reaching for his jacket to keep him warmer and the blue glow pulsing just out of reach, no longer around his shoulders but hanging from his hands he remembered being _lost_ and _cold_ and ~~her~~ he-

The sound of a coin spinning on concrete rang crisp and clear.

Connor opened his eyes. Sumo was barking, on his feet, pawing at the damp denim of Connor’s jeans. Connor resumed the stroke of his hand to calm him down.

At his feet, his quarter slowed to a stop atop the plinth the bench was resting on, rattling its last few rotations.

_SOFTWARE INSTABILITY._

Connor bent to pick it up, and put it in his pocket. His ring and little fingers had seized.

He turned his hand over and over in his lap whilst he waited for his cooling system and Thirium pump to regulate. His breathing did. The race of his Thirium pump slowed, but settled at a rate just a little faster than was regular.

He didn’t analyse his hand, just kept flexing his fingers until they shifted back into movement.

Clean, coherent Cyberlife sans swam in and out of view. Taskboxes, stress levels in a vibrant red that drew Connor’s eye even when they were closed, a crimson bloom of 82% . The arrhythmic pulse of his Thirium pump worked steadily onwards.

Sumo was huffing and pacing. Connor stood, curling and uncurling his hand, then he reached for the ball in his pocket.

“Do you want to play fetch Sumo?”

Sumo gazed up, his tail rising from its placid droop when he spotted his ball.

“I’ll assume that was an affirmative.”

They played fetch. Connor didn’t run anymore diagnostics. Not even when he went to throw the ball and his hand didn’t release it until 2.7 seconds after it should have, so the ball dropped by his feet, a dull thud in the uncut grass.

When Hank shoved his way in later, complaints from the precinct already tumbling from his mouth, Connor helped him out of his jacket, ignoring the look he was sent and basking in the rush of Good warmth that swirled beneath his chassis. It had been especially _(lonely?),_ after the park.

“The Hell’s got into you?”

“Nothing Lieutenant.”

“How many times?! No more-”

“-Lieutenant, Lieutenant?”

Hank levelled him a look. “Prick. You owe me one now.”

Connor waited, folding his hands behind his back as Hank hung his coat, and turned back, jabbing a finger in Connor’s direction.

“Say _‘fuck’_ ,”

“No. How was work?”

“Killjoy,” Hank mumbled, but sat down in the chair Connor pulled out for him anyway, launching into the parking dispute he’d had that morning and was still annoyed about.

Connor listened to the precinct news and _(yearned?)_ to still be a part of it. He listened to what Hank had for lunch and was rightfully disapproving. He listened to everything Hank had to say; until he couldn’t.

Connor heard Hank’s words, perfectly well. But they were all sound, no sense. For a few moments Connor sat staring blankly back at him, waiting to understand, instead of just registering sounds.

His language comprehension systems had failed.

His face didn’t move, but his _(panic?)_ must have bled through some anomaly – the tilt of his mouth, the flare of his nostrils. The flash of red LED. Hank paused; said something Connor couldn’t decipher.

And then the sounds suddenly snapped into _words w_ ith _meaning_ and Connor took such a deep breath in to ease the whirring of the fans buzzing faintly in his audio components. The rhythm of his too-fast Thirium pump pounded the same. Connor’s core felt like ice. The type of ice that wasn’t actively _cold,_ but was the sluggish absence of warmth, a sharp spike in negative.

Hank was awaiting an answer. Connor took a stab in the dark. “Yes.”

“...yes you know your lightshow went red?”

“Yes. I was just thinking.”

“Don’t then, if it sets off the red ring of death,” Hank joked. He was in a good mood.

“Thanks for the advice,” Connor said, registering Hank’s snort, and how loud his Thirium pump was.

 

Connor needed to enter stasis. Too much was failing him. If he couldn’t deal with the stress level indicator, then he could at least deal with the unfinished taskbars.

He could make sure nothing like what had happened to his language comprehension happened again. Being stuck, helpless, locked out from a part of himself had felt too much like when…the garden had frozen over. When he both reached for a gun and didn’t.

He never wanted his systems out of reach.

Connor eyed _ENTER STASIS_ resolutely, and slipped under the covers on the couch. Sumo was asleep, and Hank was at work.

Smoothing the duvet, Connor closed his eyes. He smoothed the duvet one last time.

After 3 minutes of staring at the back of his eyelids, he adjusted the pillow beneath his head to better support his chassis.

Another 6 minutes and 39 seconds passed, and Connor closed the _ENTER STASIS_ command, on the brink of being executed.

He didn’t enter Low-power mode. He didn’t open his eyes. He just lay there, the _comfortable_ weight of the duvet beneath his chin, the over-bright visual input removed.

Connor kept his eyes closed, and searched up footage of fish swimming in great schools, watching them navigate the endless blue until the scratching of Sumo at the door forced him up.

 

 

“Connor,” Hank began, “you do realise we didn’t get you clothes to just sit in the closet right?”

Connor paused drying Sumo. It was Hank’s day off, and he had been determined to get fast food from _somewhere,_ so they had ventured out in the rain. Hank had been smugly victorious, simply flipping Connor the finger when he tried to explain how little nutritional value his meal had. Connor had caught Hank’s frown after he neglected to make any further remarks. He’d pretended not to notice, adjusting to the slight delay he’d developed with all his servos, and how bright the notifications were, how loud the people. When his cooling system hitched and lost its rhythm in a blare of unfinished stasis tasks and diagnostic results, he tuned in to Hank’s breathing and matched his own inhales manually until his systems stuttered back to automatic function.

Sumo had gotten very wet, both from the residue of the fully melted snow, and the rain that had started pouring a few streets before they could reach the shelter of home.

(It’d been _(nice?)_ to get through the door to Hank’s cluttered surfaces and the mound of duvet perched on the end of the sofa. Connor had watched Hank shriek as Sumo shook the water off and covered him, warm despite dripping with rain).

“Of course,” Connor said evenly, and continued rubbing the towel over Sumo’s fur.

“It’s just I haven’t seen you wear ‘em,”

“I haven’t needed to,”

“Well you have need now. You’re soaked, and Sumo’s bad enough as it is – I’m not having you trail water everywhere ‘n all.” 

Connor let Sumo slip away to his bowl. He reached up to straighten his lapels and stood, turning around to face Hank and leaving the towel to puddle on the floor.

“My jacket is waterproof Lieutenant.”

Hank raised an eyebrow. “The rest of you sure as hell isn’t,” he said, and dipped his head towards the bedroom. “Come on, pick something.”

Hank had his arms crossed over his chest, waiting. Connor swallowed and walked past him, into the bedroom, up to the closet. He slid it open, revealing the clothes in the meek pile he’d left them in.

Hank followed. The yellow of Connor’s LED bounced around the room.

Connor looked. At the pile of denim and cotton, at the crisp white shirt on its hanger.

 

He remembered vividly what happened last time. He didn’t want that again.

 

“Pick anything,” Han said from behind him, “it doesn’t have to look good. _I’m_ sure as hell not gonna judge.”

Connor’s mouth felt dry.

“Hey – Connor?”

“I can’t,” Connor whispered.

There was a pause. “Whad’ya mean _‘can’t’?”_

Connor closed his eyes, his stress levels rocketing in time with the rush of static in his audio components, the wind loud and the snow cold. He was struggling to control his cooling system, every exhale loud and forceful through his nose. His hand fumbled for the coin in his pocket and the servo delay forced his unfinished stasis tasks to appear unprompted before the found it, gripping the worn ridged edge. Connor flipped the coin to hear the metallic ring of it against his thumbnail.

“I,” he tried, the coin clink, clink, clinking. He went to catch it and for the barest second his fingers didn’t respond. He only just caught it before it fell to the ground. The coin was clenched hard in his fist.

“Connor,” he heard lowly, gently.

“ _Please.”_   There was silence as he shivered.

“Okay.”

Connor opened his eyes, and Hank was an arms reach away, bathed in the harsh red of spinning LED. He was watching Connor’s hands – one balled into a fist, his thumb running back and forth over the quarter’s ridges, the other at his lapel, pressing closer.

“Alright,” Hank said quietly, “you don’t have to, it was just – I was just suggesting.”

Connor nodded, and couldn’t seem to stop, head bobbing over and over. He looked back down at his feet, at the soaked cuffs of his jeans.

There was a touch to his back, right between where his shoulder blades would be if he were human. Hank let his hand rest there uncertainly, before he pressed a little harder and rubbed in slow circles.

Hank’s hand made the slow progression from one side of Connor’s back to the other, then around again. It’s path wasn’t smooth, but constant.

Connor shifted the coin from his fist.

It twirled a slow rotation between each of his fingers as Hank’s hand brushed quiet circles, and his LED pulsed a gentle blue between the film of yellow.

“Guessing that’s a bit of a thing, huh?” Hank muttered lowly.

Connor didn’t know. He just wanted his jacket on.

“Okay,” Hank said to himself, and Connor shifted a little closer, flicking his eyes up to look at him. Hank’s hand hesitated, then resumed. He was looking at Connor with an expression that would be unreadable even if Connor wasn’t too _(tired?)_ to figure it out.

“Okay. Okay buddy.”

He reached out to the closet door, and pushed it shut. His hand lingered a little on the slats as he thought.

“Right, you’re still soaked, and you must be pretty cold right?”

Connor’s internal temperature was a couple of degrees lower than normal, so he nodded.

“Lets get you warm and dry then,” Hank said. His hand stopped rubbing, and instead pushed a little. “Come on Son.”

Connor let himself be led back out to the living room, over to where Sumo was slumbering by the radiator.

“Up Sumo, shift,” Hank said, leaning down to gently move Sumo out of the way. His hand stayed on Connor’s back.

Hank turned and slid both hands to Connor’s shoulders, manoeuvring him until the back of his legs hit the radiator with a dull clang, then lowered him down, until Connor was sitting on the floor, leaning up against it.

“There we go,” Hank said, “that should sort you out.”

Sumo stepped across Connor’s legs and abruptly set himself down.

“Sumo! For Christs sake!”

“He’s alright Hank,” Connor said, a little wobbly. “I like him there.”

Hank huffed. He watched as Sumo nosed at Connor’s hand. Connor kept his skin on.

Hank seemed to consider something, then reached out and ruffled Connor’s hair. “Be right back kid.”

Connor watched him disappear back into the bedroom. He returned with a pillow tucked under his arm, and stopped by the kitchen, making himself a coffee. Hank came back over and dropped the pillow up against the side of the couch, opposite where Connor was sitting. He sat down heavily, grumbling as he went, trying to keep the mug steady enough to prevent spillage. He mostly succeeded.

“What are you doing?”

“Keeping ya company,” Hank replied, arranging himself.

“You don’t look comfortable,”

“I’m not,” Hank said, but he settled back against the pillow, a hand wrapped around the mug resting on the floor.

They both gazed down at Sumo.

“Damn dog,” Hank murmured, and lifted his free hand to join Connor’s in stroking him. He gave Connor a small smile. Connor waited for the notifications to fade, and smiled back.

The reflected glint of LED on the wood floor turned from yellow to blue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :(
> 
> This chapter was so difficult to write, with all the tricky bits in it. I'm not sure I like it, but I got it to the best state I could. I hope it's okay for everyone.
> 
> All mistakes are mine, and kudos and comments are always v v cool. Feel free to share thoughts if you want :).


	13. Tired.

Connor felt…heavy.

 

Moving his limbs required far more effort than it should; each drag of arm or leg, each turn of his head was sluggish, like he was back in the water as Jericho went up in flames, struggling underwater. The weight of his head seemed to snap his artificial spine, bent over where Connor was sitting on the floor in the living room, tucked next to Hank’s jazz collection, wedged between the looming paper lamp, the bottom of the window brushing the nape of his neck. His chin was almost touching his chest, his whole body listing to one side. He could correct his posture, if he tried. If he really, really tried. But Hank wasn’t home to notice, so Connor didn’t.

He itched to be moving – the tasks on his tasklist had not yet been completed, waiting in the neat line Connor had created them in. Pulsing, pulsing. But Connor’s eyelids kept slipping shut, and staying shut.

He had been separating the laundry in the garage, tidy piles spread across the top of the washer, and each blink had plunged him into longer and longer bouts of darkness, the program glitching beyond his control. He’d had to lean against the dryer as his shoulders abruptly drooped and the errors burst bright against the black of his closed eyes. The warnings were stark; inescapable. His automatic blink function was on, but he had to actively pry his lids back open.

Connor had been aiming for the sofa when he walked back into the living room, but had stumbled as his right leg lagged, and fell to the ground. He had propped himself up against Hank’s cabinet, pulled his knees in towards his chest.

It had been 11 minutes and 18 seconds since he’d stopped using power to try and push his eyes back open, so he was ceaselessly staring at the dark.

 

And the notifications that seemed to ripple inside his very processors, worming through his Thirium lines. Pounding with the beat of his pump.

 

His stress level was there, higher than recommended, higher than Connor wanted it. Errors and warnings flickered left and right with the direction of Connor’s eyes shifting restlessly. They were screaming in crimson too. Everything demanded a stasis cycle, to reset and clean up and _fix_ the lagging and glitching, calm the overworked and overheating systems.

Connor’s breaths were deep. Connor’s breaths were harsh. The whirring of his fans was audible, each rush of air struggling to keep his core temperature between the standardised levels.

Only his tasklist and the unfinished stasis tasks stayed shining their customary blue and white. They were no less demanding.

Connor clutched his coin harder in his fist and hunched his shoulders further in his jacket. His poor functioning was hindering him, halting his routine. He didn’t like it. He was _(irritated?)_ that nothing was simple, even when it should be.

The flash-pulse-ripple-glimmer of the notifications seemed to pound along with the rhythm of his stress bar. Processing felt as heavy as his slumped servos.

 

Connor was…tired.

 

Tired of being assaulted by the glare of notifications and the lights and the constant tension of his stress level every time he exited Low-power mode.

Connor’s head dropped a little further and he lifted it back with a jolt.

His eyes stayed closed, blocking out the glow of Hank’s soft lamplight and trapping the sharp blaze of Cyberlife sans in. Connor couldn’t heave them open. They resisted the pull of his brow; the seam where the artificial lids met seemed thick, stuck. Connor would lift a hand to investigate, if one wasn’t pressing his coin into his palm, and the other hanging limply by his side, twitching occasionally in a flurry of errors.

He was allowing himself a few minutes of… _(respite?)._ He opened his tasklist, and peered at the solution. _ENTER STASIS_ rippled as innocuously as always. Connor didn’t execute it. Connor didn’t do anything. He just sat, various systems slowly shutting down to idle. He thought about nothing, a murky haze blanketing his thoughts.

Connor’s head dipped further; he wasn’t aware enough to pick it back up.

With his systems so strung out, and Connor no longer conscious to make active decisions, vital subsystems in the RK800’s programming took over, and forcefully plunged him into stasis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is so short, it's just kinda set up for the next couple.
> 
> Mistakes still v much mine, comments still v much appreciated. :)


	14. rose5

_The helicopter flew loud overhead._

_Connor’s voice, calling calm to the ledge and their tears, and their ~~fear:~~ _

_“You need to **trust me,** and let me help you,” _

_~~Help them. Help Daniel’s broken body be strung up as evidence, slumped lifeless, shattered limbs dripping with blue blood. Help his last words to trickle from his lips~~ _

_(_ _“you **lied** to me.”                       )_

_“You have to trust me Daniel,”_

_\- “I **promise** you everything will be fine.”_

_\- “I **promise** you won’t be hurt.”_

_Daniel believed. The gun slipped from the hostage from the little girl’s from Emma’s head. Daniel believed. Tears glistened on his skin as he confessed_

_“I don’t wanna die.”_

****

_And Connor **lied.**_

****

****

**_“You’re not going to die,”_ **

__

_~~Shot number one.~~ _

_**“we’re just going to talk.”**_

__

_~~Shot number two.~~ _

**_The look they shared, Daniel’s LED spinning blue, the gun at his side_ ** _just seconds before_

__

_~~Shot number three.~~ _

_shot number one cut through his cheek, shutting down the processors that made him plead to the unforgiving rooftop air_

**_“I don’t wanna die”_ **

_gasped Ortiz’s android, covered in blood no one had cleaned, chained to a table and terrified._

_He clenched his hands and whispered to Connor’s open ~~manipulative~~ face “I was **scared.** ”_

_(Connor’s knees buckled. Hank was loud in his ear. The PL600 was silent.)_

_Still covered in the blood spray, held inside a cell, the HK400 ignored Connor’s words and instead he said, defeated,_

**_“I’m going to die.”_ **

_~~“you’re not going to die”~~_

_And Connor lost his eye and walked away until the_

_T_

_H_

_U_

_M_

_P_

_of his head on the glass made him jump made him turn but not fast enough to stop the vivid spray of Thirium that was_

_ripped free by the snipers_

_by a bullet from his own gun through **his**_

**_their_ **

_own head,_

_from the desperate smack of dented plastic against re-enforced glass; escaping without a key the_

 

_PL600 on the roof was_

_dead_

_they were ~~both all~~_

_dead,_

_\- Connor’s mind in the numbness of nothing too. He’d **“felt it die.”**_

****

****

****

 

 

 

 

 

 

**_“Like I was dying.”_ **

****

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

****

**_“I was scared”_ **

_breathed Ortiz’s android._

_Hank’s voice, as they searched for a Deviant in the rain. **“Androids don’t feel fear,”**_

_The hushed words of the HK400._

_“For the first time I was… **scared.** ”_

_(The PL600 slowly gathered snow, crumpled against the container)._

_-_ _“Androids don’t feel fear,”_

_(The forbidden tremble of ~~errors in his software~~ emotion slipping from Connor’s lips, from his wide eyes. _

_“I was **scared**.”)_

 

**_-“Deviants do.”_ **

 

_(“I WAS **SCARED** ”)_

_On the bridge, Hank’s hand shaking around the gun in the air between them. Snow fell on their shoulders as he asked_

_“but are you **afraid to die Connor?** ”_

_and Connor shifted his eyes away from Amanda’s harsh gaze, “I may have to replace you Connor” thick in his throat._

_“…I understand,” he’d said._

_He’d “certainly find it regrettable, to be…interrupted.”_

**_~~“I was scared.”~~ _ **

_The gun stayed in Hank’s hand, stayed pointed between his eyes. “What will happen if I pull this trigger?”_

**_“Nothing…”_ ** _Connor guessed, and was right,_

_the PL600’s bullet ringing long after it had buried itself in his processors._

_“-there would be **nothing…”**_

**_“I don’t wanna die.”_ **

_They were scared of the nothing._

_A glimpse of clasped hands at the Eden club._

_“You could’ve shot those two girls but you didn’t, **why didn’t you shoot Connor?”**_

_Amanda asked,_

_Hank asked, walking away from the black spot of Kamski’s house._

_“I just saw that girls’ eyes, and **I couldn’t**.”_

_He’d looked into the PL600’s eyes, and he they it he pulled the trigger,_

_the interface raw and open._

_All their faces, raw and open._

****

**_-_ ** **_“…trust me”_ **

****

**** _Connor told them._

_And then he had trusted her._

_~~“Don’t have any regrets.”~~_

_He knew betrayal._

 

 **_They_ ** _knew betrayal, as their safe haven was swarmed, and their ship sank. It wasn’t a human who had found them._

_Connor huddled against the withered pillars of the church. He looked into Markus’ eyes. “I can understand if you decide not to **trust me.”**_

_Daniel had. He was hanging on the evidence room wall._

_Connor clutched the folds of his borrowed coat closer and stared at Markus’ feet._

_“I was stupid,”_

_“I was scared,”_

_“androids **don’t feel…** ”_

_“- there would be **nothing…** ”_

_“ **…lied** to me”_

_**“Don’t have** any **regrets-”**_

**_“androids…feel-”_ **

**_“…nothing-”_ **

**__ **

**__ **

**__ **

**__ **

**__ **

**__ **

**__ **

**__ **

**__ **

**__ **

**__ **

**__ **

**__ **

**__ **

**_ “-LIE-” _ **

****

****

 

 

 

**_“…regret-”_ **

_“Androids… **feel-”**_

**_“-REGRET.”_ **

_“I was s-_

**_-tupid_ **

**_-cared_ **

**_-tupid_ **

**_-cared._ ** _”_

_They were scared. They didn’t want to die. They chose to trust. They died._

_They were scared They didn’t want to die They chose to trust They died_

_TheywerescaredTheydidn’twanttodieTheychosetotrustTheydied_

****

**_TheywerescaredTheydidn’twanttodieTheychosetotrustTheydied_ **

****

**_THEYWERESCAREDTHEYDIDN’TWANTTODIETHEYCHOSETOTRUSTTHEYDIED –_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :(
> 
>  
> 
> Researching this chapter was beyond a mammoth job. I think all the dialogue is accurate.
> 
> We're coming up on the climax now lads, and some more familiar faces are gonna be dropping in :)
> 
> As usual mistakes and inaccuracies and stuff are purely mine, and kudos and comments are appreciated!


	15. Nightmare?

“CONNOR!”

He gasped, hitting out blindly with his right hand. He heard a shout.

He ducked into a roll, settling into a crouch, low to the ground, reaching for a gun in his waistband, warnings vivid red and clinical blue, cleaning fluid dribbling down his lips.

There was no gun. There was Hank’s voice. “FUCKING – _shit!_ Connor! Hey – hey, Connor!”

It was distressed. It was muffled below the static rumbling around Connor’s eyes and the heave of air in Connor’s ears and the heartbeat pound throbbing in Connor’s fingertips.

Connor’s preconstruction programme was urging him to move, the lack of gun a mishap, his hands and feet weapons it wanted him to use.

He didn’t. He froze, listening to Hank calling his name, then falling silent.

His mouth was dry. He realised why when _COOLING SYSTEM ERROR_ unearthed itself from the torrent of notification boxes, and he traced the deafening rush to his own forceful inhales. He closed his mouth with a click.

He blinked away more error boxes and it shook cleaning fluid from his lashes.

As they closed, gaps between them emerged. The floor between their flashing corners was Hanks.

Connor concentrated on slowing his breaths, following the grain in the wooden floorboards with his eyes, no longer existing in the fuzzy no-place of fear. 

The malfunction.

He was in the aftermath of the malfunction.

He remembered the routine: slow his breaths, stop the static buzzing from his throat, close the notifications he could, ignore what he couldn’t, wait for his Thirium pump to settle and the shakes to subside, wipe his damp face.

Eventually his systems calmed. He checked the notifications that wouldn’t leave him alone.

His stress level was still dropping from where it had rocketed. It settled at 78% - a percentage a little lower than it had been before. It still pulsed a garish red.

The unfinished stasis tasks were a mess. Some had been completed, but had then been replaced by an entirely new set. Most of the taskbars had moved closer to completion, but there was not enough progress to restore Connor to full function.

With that he turned to his diagnostic. He wasn’t functioning correctly. But he was better. The rhythm of his Thirium pump was no longer too fast; the delay in his servos was reduced. When he lifted one hand from where it was still braced on the floor it responded as it should.

His tasklist was full of things he hadn’t done. He _(hated?)_ it.

_ENTER STASIS_ was absent.

“Connor?”

Connor looked up when Hank called, eyes widening when he took in the blood on Hank’s face.

“Hank?”

“Oh thank fuck,” Hank breathed, his voice nasal. He reached a hand up to dab at his nose with a wince.

“You’re bleeding,” Connor said, alarmed.

He scanned him. Hank was suffering from elevated stress levels and the accompanying physical characteristics – and a nasal fracture.

Connor stopped scanning and _looked,_ at way Hank was sitting on the floor, leaning on a hand he’d thrown out to catch him as he was knocked backwards, in front of his jazz cabinet.

Connor was still in his defensive crouch. He ran a reconstruction to confirm what he already knew.

“I hurt you.”

Hank didn’t respond. He was watching Connor with concern from across the room. Connor became aware he was still primed to spring, so he slowly relaxed, and sat with his legs spread out in front of him, hunching his shoulders inside his jacket. His tie had grown loose. He adjusted it.

“Your nose. I hurt you,” he said again.

“Doesn’t matter,” Hank said lowly, coughing a little on blood, then angrily wiping it away. “Jesus Connor I – are you alright son?”

“I didn’t mean to,” Connor said, his LED flashing a dull red. “I didn’t mean to hit you.”

Hank blinked at him, and lifted a hand instinctively, as if to touch him from across room. He let it drop. “Shit Connor I know.”

His eyes flickered between Connor’s LED and his face. “I was too close, but you were scaring the shit out of me, I-” He pushed his hair back from his face. A few strands dragged through the blood. _“Are you alright?_ Right now? Do I need to be getting you help or – or something?”

Connor wasn’t in danger of immediate shutdown, so he said: “I’m okay.”

He watched Hank sag in relief and gingerly touch his nose again. Connor opened his mouth. “You need medical attention, I can-”

“You’re not doing anything except explaining to me what the fuck just happened.”

Connor stared at his lap. Hank’s heavy breathing seemed overly loud in the quiet. “A minor-”

“No, _no._ None of your bullshit. I’m old and alcoholic, not stupid. That - that wasn’t _minor,_ Connor.” Hank rubbed his hand over his face. “I’ve been trying to give you…space. Wasn’t so long ago that I treated you like a machine – like shit. You’re your own person now and it, well it seemed pretty clear that you didn’t - _don’t_ wanna talk about what’s going on with you, but Christ kid I can’t let things like _that_ slide.”

Hank was frowning at him, but his mouth was _(sad?)._ Dried blood crusted his nose and top lip. Connor’s LED spun yellow. He took the coin from his pocket and rolled it over his knuckles.

“What did you see?” he eventually asked.

Hank swallowed. “I heard Sumo barking when I got out the car,”

“Sumo?” Connor looked around. The dog was laying under the kitchen table, his head resting on his paws. His tail was limp by his side.

“Yeah. He’s fine,” Hank clarified, answering a question Connor didn’t know he needed answered. The coin turned in the air as it was flipped, then went back to rolling over Connor’s knuckles.  

“I heard the noise before I spotted you,” Hank continued, “ – like static, and bursts of your voice, but you weren’t really saying words. It was just…” He visibly struggled to find the words, staring at the gap Connor had been sitting in. “Like flicking through radio stations, and catching just a snippet of a sentence.” He turned back to Connor. “You were shaking, your light all red and angry looking, and you didn’t respond when I called your name or touched you or anything, and-” He hesitated. “You were crying.”

Connor watched Hanks face, lined with age and _(worry?),_ his lips parted as he breathed through his mouth.

“It was excess cleaning fluid,”

“Sure as hell looked like tears,” Hank said carefully. “Couldn’t make ‘em stop. Started to think you might never wake up for a second there.”

Connor was silent, the _ping_ of his coin passing to his other hand startling. “And then I hit you.”

Hank snorted and instantly regretted it, screwing up his face and feeling his nose.

Connor caught the coin as he watched, clenching it into his fist, LED yellow.

Hank caught him looking. He sighed and pushed himself from the floor, coming over and settling himself back down again next to Connor.

“What happened.”

Connor decided it was best to keep it simple. “I entered stasis.”

“That’s the thing with the malfunction, right? Thought you said you found a solution? Actually, I _know_ you did, ‘cos you got all snippy with me.”

Connor remembered.  

There _was_ a solution, of sorts. He could fix his failing physical systems.

But it would be at the cost of losing himself in his memories again.

He didn’t know how to say that he didn’t _want_ to execute the solution, why he _wanted_ to stay as far away from all those events that had already happened to him. He _wanted_ the whole thing to stop. For Hank to stop asking and the stress level indicator to leave Connor alone. He _wanted_ it to be quiet behind his eyes, so he could just systematically work through his self-appointed tasks and sub-tasks and wait until he could go back to doing police work. He _wanted_ to go back to a normal where Connor was Connor and not the _Deviant Hunter_ but he still had…

Structure.

Connor’s stress level indicator faded in and out, not quite in time with the ripple of _SOFTWARE INSTABILITY._

“It was a temporary solution,” he said to Hank, “It won’t fix the malfunction,”

“Shit,” Hank breathed.

“There’s a problem with my memory playback.”

_“Problem with my memory playback,”_ Hank repeated dully, “what does that mean?”

Connor thought about trying to explain, not just about what happened to him during stasis but what had happened in the bathroom, and at the park. Why the clothes Hank had bought were crumpled on the floor of the closet Connor never opened. He thought about trying to describe what he saw – remembered. Re-lived. Hank had been there for some of it, but Connor would have to tell him about Daniel.

How he’d let him die.

He’d have to tell him about what he almost did to Markus, how he almost ruined everything they’d worked for.

He’d have to tell him about the garden.

About Amanda. 

Connor smoothed down his jacket; shivered. Amanda was gone. Her garden was untouched ice he never wanted to thaw.

Hank was sitting there, next to him, covered in blood Connor had caused and seeming uninterested in cleaning it away, instead waiting for Connor to explain. Attempting to understand.

Connor had been _~~(lonely?)~~_ lonely before. So had Hank. Connor had a home now, had all those things on his Good list. He didn’t think telling Hank would ruin it. Hank had seen him be the machine he had been designed to be.

But finding a way to let Hank help without telling him would be...ideal.

“There is no problem with my stasis cycle,” he started, uncurling his hand and toying with his coin, just twisting it between two fingers. “My memory playback malfunctions, causing my stress levels to rise, and as a result I force exit the program.”

Hank was struggling to understand what Connor was saying around the unfamiliar jargon. “So how you were…”

“Side effects.”

“Of a _malfunction?!”_

Hank’s understanding was close enough. “Yes.”

“It can do that to you? It’s, I mean it just kinda looked like…”

Connor frowned.

Hank’s mouth worked a little, and his eyes danced away. “Y’know, like a…nightmare.”

Connor stiffened. He ran a search: _Nightmare - A frightening or unpleasant dream._

The definition wasn’t helpful. So he searched for another: _Dream - A series of thoughts, images, and sensations occurring in a person's mind during sleep._

Connor read it. He watched his stress level rise by 2%. He read it again.

 

Thoughts, Images, Sensations.

 

Thoughts. Connor thought all the time. He thought about thinking. Those memories _were_ thoughts.    

 

Images. His memory playback showed what he recorded. He was forced to re-watch them, not needing a screen to see.

 

Sensations.

That ghost of feeling, the haze that clouded his first few seconds after exiting stasis. Intangible and cloying -

Sensation.

 

_Nightmare._

 

Connor created his own definition: _A frightening or unpleasant set of thoughts, images and sensations occurring in a person's mind during sleep._  

He was a person. Memories were thoughts, images and sensation. They were on his Bad list, with everything else _unpleasant._

But the definition specified _‘during sleep.’_ Connor was an android. Connor couldn’t sleep. Connor couldn’t have nightmares.

“Hey.”

Hank’s voice shook Connor from his analysis, his LED blinking rapidly between red and yellow.

Hank looked like he wanted to say more, but he was struggling, his brows twitching and mouth hanging open. He licked his lips and grimaced at the taste of blood.

With a frustrated huff he glanced once more at Connor and shook his head. “Nevermind.”

Connor tilted his head. Hank gave him a half smile.

Connor couldn’t have nightmares, according to his definition. But he took another look at it, and filed it away.

Hank cleared his throat. “Right, you have a problem with your memory playback thingy that’s fucking you up. We need to work out how to get you fixed.”

Hank tapped his fingers on his leg as he thought.

“When’s the last time you spoke to Markus?”

Connor inhaled sharply. He wrung his hands. “Markus is-”

“-The only one that can help you here, as I see it. Well, New Jericho is. ‘Suppose Kamski could but if we ever see that creep again it will be too soon.”

Hank looked at him, and seemed to notice how stiffly Connor sitting. He placed a hand near Connor’s elbow. “Sorry kid but I can’t help you myself. I’d rewire you all wrong,” he joked.

Connor smiled weakly back, his eyes shifting. “Most likely,” he said, putting a hand to his clavicle and running his fingers over the coarse fabric of his jacket. “But…Jericho doesn’t have time to spare on...me.”

“Jericho definitely does. Trust me when I say they’re not getting anywhere at the moment. Us humans are, as expected, being ridiculously stubborn. You won’t be interrupting anything going to see 'em. Probably should have gone before now. Hell they probably miss you kiddo!”

Hank removed his hand, smiling at him, gruff and earnest, even with the bruised shadows from his fractured nose blooming under his eyes.

Jericho.

The last time he saw them, he had been on that stage, ~~with that gun.~~ Markus had said such nice words when he’d arrived with the androids from Cyberlife. _“ We did it,”_ he’d said.

And then Connor had stood on that stage, behind the others.

And he’d met Amanda again.

And after all that, when the speeches and celebration were done, when the sky was beginning to fade into the dusky lilac of morning, he’d walked away.

 

North had seen him go and made no move to stop him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Hank. Nightmares.
> 
> And Jericho are making an appearance. Gotta love adding more characters I have the potential to mangle horribly :').
> 
> Sorry for delay as well, but I took a holiday and worked on some other stuff. Plus this chapter was hella difficult, so I hope it turned out okay. Mistakes are very much my fault and comments are always awesome so let me know what you think if you want :)


	16. Jericho

Hank insisted that he drive him to Jericho. Connor had gone to argue but Hank spoke straight over him.

“Connor I can either sit on my ass for the rest of the day or get you to where you need to go. ‘M driving you.” Connor kept quiet, but frowned.

Connor also frowned when Hank resisted going to the hospital to check his fractured nose, and Hank glared back at him through the mirror over the sink, dabbing at the blood with a wad of balled up loo roll. Connor tried to help and was batted away.

“But Hank-”

“Don’t need a hospital. You said it was just a fracture, right?”

Connor nodded.

Hank shrugged to himself in the mirror like that settled it. “There you are then. Y’can’t do much for it anyway.”

Hank winced and Connor's LED flashed. Hank caught the red ring spinning in the mirror and lowered the wad of tissues.

“LiI' more worried about you at the moment Connor.”

Connor looked away, down at the linoleum.

“Sooner we get you to Jericho, sooner we can get you some help,” Hank continued, “You can’t go on like this kid.”

Connor didn't argue. He watched Hank’s drying blood darken the paper towels.

“You don’t have to drive me," he mumbled.

“I know I don’t have to – _ah shit._ ” Hank cut himself off when he jostled his nose. “- But I am.”

The Good warmth spread around Connor’s Thirium pump, despite the sight of Hank’s blood and the insistent pulse of his stress level and the unfinished stasis tasks and the strain behind his eyes and-

“Go get ready,” Hank said, side-eyeing the swirl of Connor’s LED. “I’ll be done in a minute.”

Connor nodded, adding _GET READY_ to his task bar, and almost tripped over Sumo as he went to leave the threshold of the bathroom. He heard Hank huff a laugh.

He ran a hand down Sumo’s back and swept around him. Sumo followed Connor closely, nudging at his knees.

Connor had a hand clasped around his usual coat before he remembered it was the same coat he had worn the last time he had visited Jericho. _Infiltrated_ Jericho. The old Jericho. The ship laying in rusty pieces underwater.

The coat was worn in his hands. He placed it back on the hook.

He was going to Jericho as a _…(friend?)._ His social relations programme agreed that arriving in the same getup as last time, when he had a gun tucked into his waistband, was likely to be particularly jarring.

Sumo sat on his feet. His stress level dropped one percent.

He should wear something else. But he didn’t have another coat, and the clothes in the closet were still untouched.

Connor fixed his collar in the hallway. Then his cuffs. Then he dithered, rubbing his hands as _GET READY_ glowed.

After a couple of minutes, shuffling, sniffing, and shifting sounded behind him, and he turned his head to see Hank had shoved a tissue up one nostril and was wrestling with one sleeve of his coat. It was still settling over his shoulders when he looked up, spotting Connor by the door.

“Er…you ready to go then?”

_GET READY_ had consisted of one sub-task: retrieving the coat and hat Connor had decided to forego. He marked the task as complete.

“Yes.”

Hank looked briefly at the blue glow of his armband. The _‘AN’_ of _‘ANDROID’_ he could just see emblazoned across Connor’s back. “You’re going like that?”

Connor slid his tie clip a little straighter. “Yes.”

Hank nodded and quirked his shoulders. “Alright then.”

His tissue started to slip and he caught it, ramming it up further in a way that Connor wanted to reprimand him about, but then Hank was coming closer and gently pushing Sumo from his feet. Connor missed the warmth.

“Come on then, let’s go.”

 

* * *

 

Hank stopped the car on the outskirts of Belle-Isle. He wanted to drive closer, but New Jericho was a temporary haven for androids, and to keep the peace no humans were allowed. Connor spent several moments convincing Hank to just drop him off, but when he climbed from the car and started walking he could still hear the rumble of the engine as the car idled, and he cast a look behind to see Hank leaning back in his seat, gesturing Connor on.

“Just making sure you’re not gonna make a run for it or somethin’ stupid,”

“I’m-”

“Humour me,” he said. “You kept this quiet for weeks. For all your fancy processor things you can be an idiot, Connor. Now go on up there and say high to Robo-Jesus for me. I’ll go keep Sumo company once you’ve got to the tower, okay?”

When Connor hesitated Hank raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms, settling back further against the battered seats of his car in a way that said he wasn’t intending to move.

Connor sighed and turned back. He began to walk.

All the snow had melted but there was still ice, and ice was all there was up until the old check point.

The wall was down. Remnants of human activity – tire tracks and smudged fingerprints and cigarette butts, where the tower had originally been ‘guarded’ until Markus put an end to it – littered the ground. Apart from those little traces, the path all the way up to the tower was clear.

Until Connor got closer. And the tower became a distinct shape and less an abstract blur. Then there were androids.

They stood in groups – some big, some small – all dressed in mismatched clothing. Some were talking. Others were standing in silence. They were also talking; LED’s cycled yellow as they conversed inside their heads.

All chatter ceased as Connor approached. They turned to watch, analysing. The sparse scattering of LED’s continued circling yellow.

Connor hesitated. Options swam into view as his programming prepared him for negotiation or combat. He was _(uneasy?)_ with so many eyes on him.

78% had continued to swim in and out since Hank’s house.

The dialogue options faded out as Connor chose to ignore them, and forged ahead. The eyes followed. His stress level rose in small degrees.

It stayed that way whilst he approached the bottom of the tower. Most of the lights inside were off - the imposing blue glare gone - but it was brilliantly lit by the natural light of the afternoon. The large doors were open. Beyond the quiet, lounging groups of androids outside, even more were gathered in the previous empty clean of reception.

Lots of androids were standing by the entrance. There wasn’t silence any longer, instead the air was filled with a low murmuring. Some were watching him openly, others out of the corner of their eye. A couple – AP700 models, like he had released from the bowels of the tower - alternated between half smiles of recognition, and the same vacant almost frown of the others, as they registered the Cyberlife blue on Connor’s jacket.

Connor went to tug his hat to cover his LED as they looked and his fingers touched only his bare temple. It was hanging on a hook with his coat. He took a hand to his pocket and closed it around his coin instead. He stepped through the doors into the tower.

There had been trees before, small clusters of green dotted amongst the Cyberlife logos. There were more now, smaller, newer. Recently planted and well cared for. Life brought in from outside and nurtured, until all the spare space amongst the original trees was crammed with greenery, and makeshift pots lined ledges and were crammed up against windows. The space was crowded. Office chairs, tables, printers; boxes and beanbags in matching blue white and grey, plastic and metal and sleek patented plasi-metal cluttered the floor - Cyberlife equipment dragged down from the floors above, to be used as seating for what was previously company merchandise. All of it was scattered in what was once an empty space, occupied by repeating faces and altered uniforms. The androids shared seats and perched on ledges. Several were settled on the floor. Over by the triangular arches that led to the centre of the tower was a warren of upturned cardboard, and a small band of children were drawing rough windows and bricks on the side in biro. The Cyberlife logos were gone. The walls still bore the discoloured word where sun had permanently bleached it.

The chatter was quiet. Connor clenched his coin tighter. His stress level ticked into 84%.

Movement by the playing children caught Connor’s eye, and an android quickly rounded the arches, visibly scanning the space, the way humans did when they were looking for someone.

He found Connor, and hesitated for just a moment more before he made his way across to him.

“Connor,”

“Hello Josh.”

“Hey,” he said, and leaned forward in an aborted movement that couldn’t decide whether it was the beginning of a hug or a handshake or the continuation of staying an arm’s length away. Josh’s hand lingered, and then found purchase on Connor’s shoulder. He gave it a pat. Dropped his arm.

Josh smiled at him, close lipped and pleasant. “Welcome to New Jericho. We’re surprised to see you - you’re welcome though, of course.”

The ridges on his coin were cool under Connor’s thumb. Josh’s eyes flicked very briefly to the ripple his armband made as he moved, then back.

“Thank you,” Connor said, instead of letting his silence linger. He shifted his weight _(nervously?)._ “I’m here to see Markus.”

“Markus?”

“Yes. I’m in need of some…assistance.”

Josh’s smile dropped a little and his eyes became slightly unfazed. He scanned Connor before Connor could tell him not to.

Josh sucked in a breath. “Connor you-”

“Need some assistance, yes,” he repeated shortly.

“But your stress levels-”

“Are linked to the problem.”

Josh looked very quietly alarmed. “We have technicians here – our versions, who want to help. There’s plenty of supplies, I can send you to them, see if they can fix-”

“The malfunction is affecting my memory playback. My hardware is fine.”

The android chatter had grown louder. Some were watching his and Josh’s conversation.

Connor swallowed, pushing the coin into his fist and crossing his arms, his eyes flitting away from Josh’s gaze. A Traci across the room stepped back as he looked her way. One of the girls he’d let escape over the back fence of the Eden club. She took another step back. He picked a spot by his shoe to watch. Hunched his shoulders. “Markus is part of the RK series too. Hank said he might be able to help,” he murmured absently.

Josh’s shoes shifted.

“Who’s Hank?” His tone was mild, distracted. He was probably still reading his own display of Connor’s stress levels.

Connor looked up. It seemed slightly odd that Josh had never met Hank. “A friend,” he said confidently, “I’ve been staying with him.”

“Human?”

“Yes.”

Josh quirked his lips. Connor dropped his arms. “He said you’d have time to help me.”

Most of Josh’s worried expression smoothed out. Most of it. He pushed his pleasant smile back. “Yeah, we uh – we do. Markus’ upstairs. I’m sure he’ll be happy to see you,”

He inclined his head and started walking to the centre tower. Connor followed.

He expected the blue flash of identification to announce his entrance. It didn’t, of course. Josh walked ahead of him by a pace or two, but he kept glancing back.

They passed onto the central bridge. The plants beneath were fuller, every podium occupied by androids relaxing, rather than standing to attention. The base of the imposing statue was no longer illuminated but a packed storage surface. There were birds.

It was pretty, in an eclectic sort of way.

Josh ushered Connor into the lift. It was clean. There was no trace of the blood the guards had leaked.

Connor flipped his coin and Josh glanced over at the sound, the doors closing as the lift took them up.

They stood quietly.

“Markus was worried about you,” Josh began, “when we couldn’t find you after. North told him you were fine. Said she’d seen you slip away – that it looked like you had somewhere to be.”

He hadn’t, originally, but, “Yeah, I did.”

Josh nodded as the lift came to a stop. “Hank?”

Connor nodded.

Josh made a neutral noise, put his smile back in place. He stepped out into the hallway. “This way.”

The hallway they emerged into was a stark contrast to the business of downstairs. It was empty; every large room behind one of the many glass doors that lined it was empty too, their furniture in use. The only voices to be heard were instantly recognisable.

A door was propped open, and led into the only furnished office. Markus looked round as Josh and Connor approached, and sat up from where he had been leaning against the desk.

“Connor!”

“Hello Markus,” he said, and as he entered the room fully, “hello North.”

North nodded her head at him and shifted her weight, then looked to Markus.

Connor flipped his coin.

He almost dropped it when Markus leaned in, giving him a rough squeeze. He’d never received a hug from anyone but Hank before (he half counted Sumo). Usually if Hank hugged him he knew to return it. Markus was gone before Connor could do anything other than stand there.

There was quiet. They all stood in a rough circle, just inside the door.

“So,” Markus said, breaking the silence, “I heard you need some help?”

Connor blinked, and turned to Josh, who gestured to his temple with a shrug. “Called ahead – you can explain though,”

“Memory playback malfunction?” Markus continued.

“Yes,”

Markus held out his hand, the skin peeling back. “Mind if I take a look?”

White plastic shone first from the tips of his fingers, then down past his knuckles and palm and disappearing beneath his sleeve. The synthetic skin stayed on Connor’s hand, and Connor’s hand stayed clutching the coin by his chest. What memories that bled through during an interface couldn’t be entirely controlled.

The stress bar bounced a vivid 86%.

“I’d prefer to just…explain. Verbally.”

North made a noise. A huff. She crossed her arms. Markus shot her a warning look.

He erased it when he spoke to Connor. “That’s okay,-”

North interrupted, a tiny crease between her eyebrows. “Any particular reason Connor?”

Markus sighed. “Don’t interrogate him North. He’s one of us.”

Her nostrils flared as she took an unnecessary sharp breath. “Look,” she said, addressing Connor. “You helped us, I recognise that, and thank you. But-”

_“North,”_

“- you’re not one of us,” she finished.

“Hey,” Josh said.

“He’s still in the Cyberlife uniform! It’s been weeks,” she hissed.

Dialogue options appeared during the volatile quiet. Connor chose to say nothing, flipped his coin to the other hand. Rolled it back and forth over his knuckles, fixed his tie. Pressed his collar flush to his skin.

Josh looked uncomfortable. Markus opened his mouth but looked as if he was still working out what to say. North ignored them.

“I just – I don’t think I can forgive you yet. Sorry. Hope Markus can help.”

And she left, pushing past Connor and disappearing down the corridor.

They never touched – North gave him a wide enough berth as she exited – but the glow of his unfinished stasis tasks and stress levels flared briefly as she drew level with him.

Markus was rubbing his face with his hand. “I’m sorry Connor. North is just…slow to trust people.”

“Yeah, she’ll…she’ll come around,” Josh added, flashing a neutral smile, his eyes darting to nothing in mid air worriedly. Still watching Connor’s teetering stress levels. “She didn’t mean what she said - about ‘forgiving’ you. She just misses Simon.”

“Simon?”

Josh seemed to realise what he’d said. He shared a look with Markus.

It was clear they were communicating. Connor didn’t know whether it was through the android link, or through their eyes alone. They made a decision, and Markus leaned back against the desk, bracing himself with his arms. He took a moment, smiled at Connor, then began speaking, slowly, carefully.

“He was our friend.”

_Was._

His eyes were soft and gauging all at once.

“He helped us during the protests, was with us when we infiltrated Stratford tower. He got injured. Couldn’t make it further than the roof.”

He paused. When he spoke again his voice was softer. “We had to leave him behind.”

The RK800 series had the fastest processing speed of any Cyberlife android ever produced. Connor understood what they were saying before the sentence had finished leaving Markus’ mouth.

The PL600 on the roof. Who shot himself rather than be captured. By Connor.

The red of his LED bounced sickly off the stark white Cyberlife walls. His stress levels tipped into 90%. He shivered and felt Josh’s hand on his shoulder, too tight to be _(comforting?)._ His voice was frantic reassurance.

“Connor you need to calm down, you’re in danger of-”

“His name was Simon,” Connor said simply. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Markus said. “It wasn’t your fault; you were following orders.”

Connor didn’t select a dialogue option to say silent. He just didn’t know what to say.

Josh was hovering beside him, alarmed.

“Josh,” Markus said, “why don’t you go and find North. I’ll stay and help Connor,”

Josh continued to hover. Markus looked at him evenly.

Eventually Josh nodded. Flashed that neutral smile. He backed away, looking round twice before he, too, disappeared out of sight.

The coin had been continuously rolling over Connor’s knuckles since he learned Simon’s name. Their friend, Simon. He flicked it up to spin on the tips of his fingers. It made a gentle rhythmic ring.

Markus let them listen to it for a few long moments. He moved off from the desk to grab two mismatched chairs only once Connor’s stress levels dropped back into the 80’s.

He pushed them close together in front of his desk, sat down heavily in one, and indicated the other.

Connor sat. He didn’t stop bouncing the coin.

“Simon would’ve like you, I think.”

The coin span to the floor. Markus bent to pick it up; offered it back.

He continued as if there had been no interruption. “He wanted what was best for Jericho – for every android. He cared. You care too. You didn’t have to do something as risky as you did Connor – freeing all those androids, swaying the tides that threatened to drown us – but you did.”   

He tilted his head. Up close Connor could see he looked a little worn. No new creases, no bags under his eyes, of course. But he could see it. Markus smiled fondly all the same.

“That makes you one of us, okay?”  

Connor’s stress levels faded in and out. The ridges of his coin clacked beneath his nail.

“Just so you know,” Markus finished. He changed the subject. “This isn’t what you came here for, I’m sorry. You asked for my help?”

Connor swallowed. Focussed.

Markus invited him to speak without words.

 “I – I thought it was an issue with my stasis cycle, at first,”

“Your stasis cycle?”

“Yes. Memory playback started…glitching, and stasis would be interrupted, the stasis tasks left unfinished. When I run a diagnostic it doesn’t show a malfunction.”

Markus had sat up in his seat, pulled one sleeve over his thumb. Those worn eyes were very soft.

“By glitching, do you mean -” he looked up as if it helped him think. “- Like someone has cut up an old-fashioned film reel of your memories and spliced it all back together?”

_"Yes,”_ Connor said _(earnestly?)._ “I exit stasis…disorientated. And there are side effects – errors – with my voice box, and, and excess cleaning fluid and I’m, I _feel-”_

“Scared?”

Connor looked at him. He remembered what exiting stasis was like. He nodded.

“Connor – there’s no malfunction. You’re having nightmares.”

_Nightmares: A frightening or unpleasant set of thoughts, images and sensations occurring in a person's mind during sleep._

He frowned as the definition arose again. “That’s what Hank suggested,”

“Hank’s a friend of yours, right? Josh said-”

Connor wasn’t listening. His LED shuttered between yellow and red as he thought. “But you have to sleep to have nightmares and androids have a stasis cycle we don’t _sleep-”_

“We don’t breathe either, technically. Or have a heart or a heartbeat. But we still use those names. Our ‘hardware’ may be different but the effect is the same. Just because androids experience nightmares differently doesn’t stop them from being nightmares.”

His LED span yellow. Then red. Then yellow. Red. Yell…

 

In stasis, his system dredged up the _Bad_ things he didn’t want to think about.

 

“OH.”

“Some other androids here have them too,” Markus was saying, “ _I_ do.”

Nightmares. Not a malfunction.

“There’s nothing to fix?”

Markus paused. “No. Not in the sense you mean – ”

He couldn’t fix himself. The nightmares wouldn’t stop.

 

“ - It’s not very concrete but talking about them can help - ”

 

He wouldn’t be able to enter stasis without them being there. And he had to enter stasis, to stop the flashing of the notification boxes, to keep himself running like _himself,_ so he didn’t succumb to the tiredness that pressed constantly behind his eyes and accidentally hurt someone again -

 

“ - Connor please, your stress level - ”

 

“Won’t go away,” he answered, a tinge of something like _(panic?)_ lacing his voice, “it just keeps rising and I can’t dismiss it.”    

Markus was reaching towards Connor, not touching him but watching the frantic shift of his eyes. He still spoke calmly. “When’s the last time you completed a full stasis cycle Connor? The unfinished stasis tasks put strain on your systems - ”

Connor _knew._ He remembered the infuriating lag, the stutter.

 

“ - and a consistently high stress level has got to be draining, I’m worried - ”

 

The coin rung as it passed from palm to palm.

 

There was no way to get rid of them.

_Ring._

Entering stasis would always bring the _nightmares._

_Ring._

He could talk about them. And think about what he didn’t want to. And hope it helped.

_Ring._

 

Markus laid a hand on Connor’s wrist. Spoke quickly. “You need to keep calm, your stress level is getting dangerous - I can help you - _Hank_ can help you – you have friends - ”

Markus had one less. Connor had watched Simon die.

92% throbbed an inescapable red haze. 

 “I have to go.”

_“Connor-”_

Connor sprung from the chair and left the room, Markus calling out behind him. He didn’t want to be at Jericho anymore. He strode straight past the lift with shaking hands. He couldn’t bear to stand so still whilst it descended.

The stair doors swung open soundlessly when he shoved them, but dented the wall with a crack from the sheer force he hadn’t meant to exert. The stairwell was white and cool. Connor pressed a hand to his tie and rushed down the narrow steps. Down and down and down and down.

He reached surface level and the explosion of green and android chatter.

It wasn’t pretty anymore.

Connor headed towards the exit, his coin etching itself into his closed fist. The eyes on him as heavy as the persistent streak of broken notifications.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So imma just apologise for two things:
> 
> 1: sorry this is so angsty :)
> 
> B: sorry this took so long to update. I ended up taking an accidental mini-hiatus, due to a mixture of this being a long and difficult chapter to write, (it's hard enough tryna handle the boys and then my dumb ass decided to include all of Jericho as well good job) and the fact life was really hitting me with shit this month. Had to call a locksmith the first day I moved in my new place if that gives you an idea of the type of fun i've been dealing with :')
> 
> Tldr; I felt really bad this took even longer than my usual slow ass updating for the couple of you that actually follow this story - (I really REALLY appreciate you!!) and I promise the gap between updates won't be that long again. There's only 3 or possibly 4 chapters till the end anyway.
> 
> Mistakes and everything are my bad and kudos and comments are awesome - your opinions are v cool to read.


	17. 92%

Connor watched his feet, his quick steps _away._

He shut his eyes against the red of 92%. It stayed right there, inside his eyelids. The click of his shoes on the concrete was off rhythm with his Thirium pump and the bounce of the stress bar. 

He tried to focus on one. He liked that, normally; a thump or pound or clink chiming at dependable, regular, intervals. Connor could pick one and focus and alleviate the red if not by number than by the pressing of it inside his head. 

His shoes scuffed and his breath hitched. They weren't in tandem.

All sound was loud and jumbled. He couldn’t pick one rhythm. The dark of his closed eyes stopped him from seeing Jericho’s garden green but the white chill was still settled underneath his jacket, and instead of seeing proof that he wasn’t stuck _there_ with _her_ he just saw an endless stream of font; graphics designed to be clean for the comfort of the designers. Not because he needed a visual representation of what his own stress level thrummed at. He could feel that. Always.

Connor opened his eyes and was flooded with a warm tinge. Sunset. A sight widely considered to be beautiful. 

It was marred by the clean edges of the unfinished stasis task list, the errors that started to flood the corners of his vision in scrolling capitals. Piling up as his stress level stayed teetering at 92%.

 

Dusk was falling. Caught as it was behind grey winter clouds, the sun cast everything in orange filter and shadow. Dark hinted at the top of the clouds.

Connor left Belle-isle. He carried on walking; the tower lit up golden in his peripheral vision.

 

His task list was empty. A void. 

 

A malfunction could be fixed. Parts could be replaced or programme re-coded. There was always, somewhere, an understandable reason for an error.

 _Nightmares_ were intangible.

Connor couldn’t even pinpoint where the particular horror of them lay, why the things he’d seen and done and _lived_ replayed so much worse than when he’d done them before, why _waking_ from them - disorientated and still half there - doused him in fear. What was he meant to say then? To Hank – who was _there_ for most of them. Who had seen, who already _knew._

And what he wasn’t there for, the garden so beautifully verdant and then so quickly crushed under the same nurturing thumb, Connor wanted to leave untouched.  

92% ticked into 93%.

His hands had not stopped twitching. Neither had his vital processes slowed. Teetering over 90% forced certain subroutines to optimise his frame for efficiency. The pounding in his head was nothing to do with those systems.

 

Notification boxes. Errors. Self-destruct warnings.

 

Connor needed to calm down.

He didn’t run. The click of his shoes under feet stayed just as harried.

There was no destination in Connor’s tasklist, but through the red film that could have been the setting sun or the dangerous tinge of his interface he recognised a collection of trees. A path he’d walked many times before.

He entered the park he took Sumo to. Found their usual bench. Sat stiffly.

The coin left an imprint on his palm when he unfurled it. He rotated it once over his knuckles, and stared at his lap.

Connor attempted to take stock of his systems. The 93% made it difficult.

Markus was right – it was dangerous to be operating with a stress level that high. His diagnostic flashed up faults that only worsened the longer he lingered up over 90%. That was without the unfinished stasis tasks, the clutter in his head. 

The _tiredness_ he couldn’t pinpoint. A sluggish heaviness that shouldn’t be present in an advanced prototype. 

A want to enter stasis that ran so deep. A desire he would have even if the endless scrolls of Cyberlife Sans weren’t recommending it.

 

**ERROR. ENTER STASIS. CYBERLIFE ASSISTANCE NEEDED. SELF-DESTRUCTION IMMINENT. ENTER STASIS. ERROR.**

 

Connor was pulled in two different directions. His body longed for stasis, to rest and reset. Declutter and relieve. Connor _wanted._

He also wanted to stay clear of the nightmares.

And the body breakdown was frustrating. But the panic was worse.

 

94%.

 

Dusk fell. The sun was so low in the sky that it had almost completely set. It still seemed too bright. As stark and white as Jericho’s walls that were as crisp as snow.

The artificial fight/flight response that wove tension through Connor’s shoulders heightened all sound, staticky in his audio processors.

Birds and other small animals in the park.

The rush of vehicles Detroit had been devoid of for so long.

Connor’s breathing. Deep pants to keep up with his Thirium pump, a murmuring vibration.

The rush of his Thirium.

The muffled, distorted sounds inside his head as the display boxes rippled.

The whir of biocomponents.

The click of his eyes shifting in their sockets.

 

The shuffling of shoes.

 

Connor looked towards them, and took in what he had blitzed past before. Humans. And they were _staring -_ at the light from his temple and armband and glowing decals, and Connor could feel Jericho’s phantom stares too. He settled his jacket neater over his collarbones with a jerky hand.

The humans were giving him a wide berth. He could use his programming – the most advanced social programme _ever_ to decipher their expressions, but his eyes slide with panicked laziness from one face to another, and uncovered nothing. Darkness fell absolute and his eyelids almost fell with it, though errors were a constant hum in every wire, and the self-destruct warning of 94% wouldn’t close.

The park was beautiful in the day, with Sumo panting by his side. He was sitting alone in a Cyberlife blue glow only he seemed to want. 

He stood up too fast, and the humans nearest to him jumped. He left. His feet knew the way home.

That, at least, was on the Good list. Home was better than the ink shadows of leaves and unfamiliar greenery and empty offices.

 

Hank’s car was on the drive. Lamplight shone through the opened curtains. The hallway flashed red with Connor’s LED as he pushed open the door.

Sumo lifted his head, and whined low and quiet, for a large dog. 

Hank was asleep on the sofa. It was clear from the few bottles and glasses on the table that he had tried to wait up. 

Connor would usually get Hank to his bed. Connor walked past him, silent.

Sumo half-clambered into Connor’s lap as he sat down and delved his fingers into thick fur, slightly matted from Connor’s inattention.

He sat and let Sumo lick at the exposed stretch of skin on his wrists and waited for his stress level to drop. 

The bar pulsed at 94%. 

 

 **WARNING: SELF-DESTRUCTION IMMINENT**.

 

Sumo was warm. Soft. Good.

The bar pulsed at 94%.

Connor stared resolutely down at his hands.

The heaviness that pressed on his shoulders made his posture slip, just as the glimmer of capitals appearing caught his attention.

 _ENTER STASIS_ rested in his tasklist. He hadn’t put it there. He couldn’t remove it. His base systems were overriding his control. 

 

95%.

 

Connor’s hands shook in Sumo’s fur.

He wasn’t calming down.

And the slip of his eyes and the slump of his spine were his systems effort to prevent self-destruction, but he couldn’t do what it wanted. He didn’t have a solution to what waited beyond.

 

He tried to enter _DO NOT ENTER STASIS_ , but it flagged as a contradiction. He tried again, and set himself two new objectives:

STAY AWAKE. REDUCE STRESS LEVELS. 

 

Sumo huffed under his hands, and did nothing to lower the percentage. Connor was home, with Sumo. His jacket was right where it always was. Nothing was helping. He looked _(desperately?)_ to his lists.

Music had never been given a category, not since the first night the ~~malfunction~~ nightmares started. He remembered the hours he’d managed to kill. It would do.

Connor cobbled together every song he’d set aside before and set them playing.

 

95%.

 

His eyes slipped against his will.

He turned off any filter, played anything and everything. All genres, as old as the first recorded sound to the current chart list. He tried to listen, and sort, like he had before, but it was all just noise, and soon he stopped being able to tell when one song ended and another began, just that suddenly his head jerked up from his chest and the melody was different.

**CRITICAL STRESS LEVEL - 95%. ERROR. ENTER STASIS. SELF-DESTRUCTION IMMINENT.**

Connor turned up the volume. UP and up and up inside his head, until he was blaring almost pure blown out sound, throbbing with the bounce of his stress bar and his chest as he pulled in air and the bob of his head as he struggled to keep it upright keep his eyes open keep awake and keep alive.

 

STAY AWAKE.

REDUCE STRESS LEVELS.

 

He shut off the music. It was accomplishing nothing. Sumo was struggling in his lap, nudging at his chin and shoulders and chest, nails skittering on the wood floor.

Connor unwound one hand from Sumo’s fur and picked out his coin, his hands trembling.

The coin clinked on his nail as he flicked it.

 

**95%. STRESS LEVEL CRITICAL. ERROR. SELF DESTRUCTION IMMINENT. ENTER STASIS.**

His eyes threatened to close as he caught the coin. He sent it spinning back into the air. Scanned it, to keep his ~~optical units~~ eyes busy.

_1994 U.S Washington quarter. Valued at 0.25 U.S. Dollar. 880,034,000 minted. Diameter of 24.26mm (0.955 in). Mass 6.25(Ag); 5.67 (Cu-Ni) g. Thickness 1.75 mm (0.069 in). Composition 90% Ag, 10% Cu; 91.67% Cu, 8.33% Ni. 119 reeds._

**95%. STRESS LEVEL CRITICAL. ERROR. SELF DESTRUCTION IMMINENT. ENTER STASIS.**

 

It clipped his knuckles as it fell.

 

_1994 U.S Washington quarter. Valued at 0.25 U.S. Dollar. 880,034,000 minted. Diameter of 24.26mm (0.955 in). Mass 6.25(Ag); 5.67 (Cu-Ni) g. Thickness 1.75 mm (0.069 in). Composition 90% Ag, 10% Cu; 91.67% Cu, 8.33% Ni. 119 reeds._

**95%. STRESS LEVEL CRITICAL. ERROR. SELF DESTRUCTION IMMINENT. ENTER STASIS.**

 

It almost slipped between his fingers. 

 

_1994 U.S Washington quarter. Valued at 0.25 U.S. Dollar. 880,034,000 minted. Diameter of 24.26mm (0.955 in). Mass 6.25(Ag); 5.67 (Cu-Ni) g. Thickness 1.75 mm (0.069 in). Composition 90% Ag, 10% Cu; 91.67% Cu, 8.33% Ni. 119 reeds._

**95%. STRESS LEVEL CRITICAL. ERROR. SELF DESTRUCTION IMMINENT. ENTER STASIS.**

 

It slipped between his fingers, and went spinning across the wood in a sound deafening to his straining audio processors.

 

**96%. STRESS LEVEL CRITICAL. ERROR. SELF DESTRUCTION IMMINENT. ENTER STASIS.**

 

Sumo lurched up after it. The sound startled Hank, and he jerked upright on the couch, the room dark but for puddle of blue spilling out from Connor to the left and a solid deep red to the right.

 

“Jesus Chri – _Connor?!”_

The skin projection on his hands was failing. Nonessential systems were shutting down. It receded back in a haze of light, disappearing beneath the cuffs of his jacket. He couldn’t put it back. 

Hank was saying something but Connor lurched up, and the slight bounce of the wayward strand of hair on his forehead was gone.

Sumo was beneath his feet as he stumbled to the bathroom, gripping the sink and staring into the mirror at the white and grey plastic shape that barely looked like himself, and he couldn’t get his skin back or stop his own systems from trying to get him to go back to the 

_nightmares._

 

Things were slipping from him.

 

Hank looked wide eyed at Connor in the mirror and squinted against the harsh bathroom lights and the haze of 

**97%. SELF DESTRUCTION IMMINENT.**

and the blue from the jacket Connor was shaking in. He couldn’t see Connor model RK800 313 248 317 – 51 in the mirror couldn’t wake himself up from the frost tipped leaves and the ice sheet that cracked underfoot and the roses rotted black couldn’t

 

98%.

 

keep himself awake and functioning couldn’t stop the slide into stasis and the fear in all the eyes or the blue blood spilled couldn’t

 

99%.

 

escape Amanda, who stood calm and cool and let him get lost inside his own mind.

 

There was a touch to his shoulder.

 

 

**STRESS LEVELS CRITICAL. 100%. SELF DESTRUCTION INITIATED.**

 

 

The stress level bar was there always so there so loud in front of his eyes that stared ceaselessly into the mirror and saw nothing but white plastic and no knew task appeared on his tasklist, but his head hit the glass with purpose and it shattered under his head, shards falling in the sink and the 100%

 

100%

 

**100%**

 

was eclipsed entirely by flaring damage warnings. So Connor slammed his head against where the mirror used to be again and the damage box hid his stress level and the unfinished tasks and was oddly calm and blue but he needed to hit harder to make it _STOP_ so he braced his hands on the wall either side of his head and this time he hit hard and felt his processors judder.

The plaster chipped. The wall dented under the splatter of Thirium. Connor rammed his head against the wall for the white out flare of relief the destruction brought.

The thud echoed in his left ear; in the right, static.

Thirium dribbled over his lips. He sampled it involuntarily. Pounded his head against the wall. Sampled the Thirium on his lips. Splintered his chassis.

 

Connor’s hands slipped from the wall as he was thrown back, falling until he landed with a thump on the floor. The wall covered in his Thirium was no longer right there but his head had bumped the ground when he hit it so he bashed the back of his plastic skull against the tile it until something stopped him; clasped him around his head, over his ears and braced by his neck. He struggled to free himself and follow the numbing call of 100%, but there was a weight settled on top of him, pinning his arms and legs so all he could do was uselessly kick.

He stayed struggling in the abyss. 

Until a fragment of sound that was familiar in a way he couldn't quite remember filtered through the static. The pressure keeping him still brushed shakily back and forth over his temple. One hand was nuzzled wet, then pressed into thick fur, and 100% dropped to 99%.

 

Connor blinked up at Hank, and cleaning fluid welled in the hollows of his eye sockets. There were no lashes manifested to dislodge it.

His stress level dropped. One percentage at a time, then two, then in a larger rush that wilted his limbs and brought the exhaustion flooding back. Inescapable.  

Connor grew still, and relaxed back into the floor. _ENTER STASIS_ rippled quietly. He let his eyes close. His systems forced him into stasis. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...So yeah. Oof.
> 
> ALSO I was at comic con at the weekend and got to meet Bryan and Amelia they were so sweet :').
> 
> Mistakes are all my bad and kudos and comments are awesome!


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